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THE WIDOW LEROUGE. v 


A Novel. 


BY * 

EMILE GABORIAU. 

u 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 

BY 

FRED. WILLIAMS and GEORGE A. O. ERNST. 



BOSTON : 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

(late TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,) 

124 Tremont Street. 

'873- 


&\\2 

w 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, 
By JAMES R. OSGOOD &*CO. f 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


By transfer 

U. 8. Soldiers Home Lib. 

WAR 18 i 938 


Boston : 

Stertotyped and Printed by Rand, A very, &• Co. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 


CHAPTER I. 

On Thursday, the 6th of March, 1862, tw© 
da r s after Shrove Tuesday, five women of 
t village of Joncliere presented them- 
es at the bureau of police at Bougival. 
They stated that for two days past no 
i i had seen the Widow Lerouge, — one of 
/ fir neighbors, who lived by herself in an 
isolated cottage. The house was shut up. 
Several persons had knocked without re- 
ceiving an answer. The window-shutters 
as well as the door were closed ; and it was 
impossible to obtain even a glimpse of the 
interior. 

This state of affairs alarmed them. Ap- 
prehensive of a crime, or at the least an 
accident, they demanded the interference 
of justice to satisfy their doubts by forcing 
the door and entering the house. 

Bougival is a quiet maritime village, 
its inhabitants principally boatmen, who 
ply upon the river. Trifling offences are 
sometimes heard of in its neighborhood, 
but crimes are rare. 

The commissary of police at first re- 
fused to listen to the women, but their 
importunities fatigued him into compliance. 
He called into requisition the services of a 
(locksmith, the brigadier of gendarmes, 
jand two of his men ; and, thus accompanied, 
he followed the neighbor of the Widow 
Lerouge. 

Whatever celebrity it possesses, La Jon- 
chere owes to the projectors of the rail- 
way, which has now passed close to it for 
several years, with more enterprise than 
profit. It is a hamlet of small importance, 
seated upon the side of the hill which over- 
looks the Seine between Malmaison and 
Bougival. It is about twenty minutes’ walk 


from the main road ; which, passing by 
Rueil and Port Marly, goes from Paris to 
St. Germain. A steep and rugged road, 
or rather by-path, not easily travelled, turn- 
ing off at right angles from the main road, 
leads to it. 

The little troup, headed by * the gen- 
darmes, followed the highway bordering 
the river, until it reached this cross-road, 
into which it turned, and after stumbling 
over its rugged inequalities for about a 
hundred yards halted before the dwelling 
of the Widow Lerouge. 

It was a house, or rather cottage, of 
modest, but comfortable appearance, and 
must have been built by some Parisian 
shopkeeper in love with the beauties of 
Nature; for all the trees had been carefully 
cut down. More deep than wide, it con- 
sisted of two apartments on the ground 
floor with a loft above. Around it extended 
a much-neglected garden, enclosed by a 
wall of dry stones about three feet high, 
much dilapidated, — broken and crumbling 
in many places, and affording but slight 
protection against trespassers. To this 
garden a light wooden gate, turning on 
hinges clumsily constructed of iron wire, 
gave access. 

“ This is the house,” said the women. - 

The commissary turned. During his 
short walk, the number of his followers had 
been rapidly increasing, and now included 
all the idle persons in the village. He saw 
before him about forty peasants of both 
sexes, nearly wild with curiosity. 

“ Let no one enter the garden,” said he ; 
and, to ensure obedience, he placed the two 
gendarmes on sentry before the entrance, 
and advanced towards the house, accompa- 
nied by the brigadier and the locksmith. 


6 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


After calling several times, he knocked 
loudly with his cane, at the door first, and 
then successively at each of the window- 
shutters. After each blow, he placed his 
ear against the wood and listened. Hear- 
ing nothing, he turned to the locksmith. 

“ Open 1 ” said he. 

The workman unstrapped his basket, 
and produced his implements. He had 
already introduced a skeleton key into the 
lock, when a loud exclamation was heard 
from the crowd outside the gate. 

“ The key ! ” they cried. “ Here is the 
key ! ” 

An urchin of some dozen years, playing 
with his companions, had perceived in a 
ditch by the roadside an enormous key, 
which he had picked up and carried to the 
cottage in triumph. 

“ Give it to me gamin,” said the briga- 
dier. “We shall see.” 

The key was tried. It was, in fact, the 
key of the house. 

The commissary and the locksmith ex- 
changed glances full of sinister misgivings. 

o o o o 

“ This looks bad,” muttered the brigadier. 
They entered the house ; while the crowd, 
restrained with difficulty by the gen- 
darmes, stamped with impatience, or clam- 
bered on the garden wall, stretching their 
necks eagerly, to see or hear something of 
what was passing within the cottage. 

Those who anticipated the discovery of 
crime, were unhappily not deceived. Of 
this the commissary was satisfied upon the 
threshold. Every thing in the first room 
pointed with a sad eloquence to the pres- 
ence of a malefactor. The furniture — a 
bureau and two large trunks — were forced 
and broken open. In the inner room, the 
disorder was even greater. It seemed as 
though some furious hand had taken a fiend- 
ish pleasure in creating frightful disorder. 

In the inner room, near the chimney, was 
found extended upon the hearth the dead 
body of the Widow Lerouge. She was 
lying with her face in the ashes. One side 
of the face and a portion of the hair were 
burnt ; it appeared a miracle that the fire 
had not caught her clothing. 

“Wretches!” exclaimed the brigadier. 
“ Could they not have robbed, without 
assassinating the poor woman ? ” 

“But where has she been wounded ? ” 
inquired the commissary. “ I do not see 
any blood.” 

“ Hold ! here between the shoulders,” 
replied the brigadier ; “ two fierce blows, 
by my faith. I’ll wager my stripes she 
had no time to cry out.” 

He stooped over the corpse and touched 
it. 


“ She is cold,” he continued, “ and com- 
pletely rigid. It is at least thirty-six hours 
since she received her death-wound.” 

The commissary began writing at the 
table his summary official report. 

“ Wc are not here to speculate, but to 
discover the criminal,” said he. “ Let 
information be at once conveyed to the 
justice of peace, and the mayor at Bougi- 
val, and send this letter without delay to 
the Palace de Justice in Paris. In less 
than two hours a judge of inquiry can be 
here. In the meanwhile, I will proceed to 
a provisional inquest.” 

“ Shall I carry the letter ? ” asked the 
brigadier. 

“ No, send one of your men; you will be 
useful to me here in keeping away intruders, 
and finding the witnesses I shall require. 
It is advisable to leave every thing in this 
chamber as we have found it. I shall 
install myself in the other.” 

A gendarme departed at a run towards 
the station at Rueil ; and the commissary 
commenced his investigations in regular 
form, as prescribed by law. 

“ Who was this Widow Lerouge ? "Where 
did she come from? How was she em- 
ployed ? Upon what means did she live ? 
What were her habits, her manners, her 
companionships ? Was she known to have 
enemies? Was she a miser? Did she 
pass for being rich ? ” 

All this it was important to the commis- 
sary to ascertain. 

But, although the witnesses were numer- 
ous enough, they possessed but little infor- 
mation. The depositions of the neighbors, 
successively interrogated, were empty, in- 
coherent, and incomplete. No one knew 
any thing of the victim. She was a stran- 
ger in the country. Many presented them- 
selves as witnesses, moreover, who came 
forward less to afford information than to 
seek the gratification of their curiosity. 
A gardener who had been an acquaintance 
of the deceased, and a young girl who sup- 
plied her with milk, were the only persons 
capable of giving any precise evidence ; 
and that was insignificant enough. 

In a word, after three hours of laborious 
investigation, after having undergone the 
infliction of all the gossip of the country, 
after receiving evidence the most contradic- 
tory, and listened to commentaries the most 
ridiculous the following is all that ap- 
peared any way near certainty to the be- 
wildered commissary. 

Twelve years before, at the beginning of 
1850, the woman Lerouge had made her ap- 
pearance at Bougival , with a large wagon 
piled with furniture, linen, and her per- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


7 


sonal effects. She had stopped at an inn, de- 
clared her intention of settling in the neigh- 
borhood, and immediately went in quest of 
a house. Finding this one unoccupied, and 
liking it, she had taken it, without trying to 
beat down the terms ; paid in advance three 
hundred and twenty francs for the first six 
months, but refused to sign a lease. 

The house taken, she installed herself the 
same day, and expended about a hundred 
francs on repairs. 

She was a woman about fifty-four or 
fifty-five years of age, well preserved, active, 
and in the enjoyment of excellent health. 
No one knew her reasons for taking up her 
abode in a country where she was an abso- 
lute stranger. She was supposed to have 
come from Normandy, having been at times 
seen to wear the high white muslin head- 
dress of that country. This night bonnet, 
as the neighbors called it, did not prevent 
her from wearing very coquettish costumes 
during the day ; indeed, she Svorc ordina- 
rily very handsome dresses, very showy rib- 
bons on her bonnets, and covered herself 
with as many jewels as a gipsy. Without 
doubt she had lived near the sea, for sailors 
and seafaring topics recurred incessantly 
in her conversation. 

Her husband she said was dead, having 
been lost at sea ; but, as she never entered 
into particulars on this subject, the impres- 
sion was that she disliked speaking of 

him. 

On one particular occasion she had re- 
marked in presence of the milkmaid and 
three other persons, “No woman was 
ever more miserable than I during my mar- 
ried life." And at another, “All new, 
all fine! A new broom sweeps clean. My 
sea-monster of a husband loved me for only 
a year 1” 

The Widow Lerouge passed for rich, or 
at the least for being very well off ; and she 
was not a miser. She had given a woman 
at Malmaison sixty francs to pay her rent, 
and at another time advanced two hundred 
francs to a fisherman of Port Marly. She 
was fond of good living, spent a good deal 
of money on" her table, and bought wine in 
large quantities. She took pleasure in 
treating her acquaintances, and her dinners 
were excellent. If complimented on her 
easy circumstances, she made no very strong 
denial. She had frequently been' heard to 
say, “ I have neither lands nor houses : but 
I have every thing I want ; and, if I wished 
for any thing more, I could have it.” 

Beyond this, the slightest allusion to her 
past life, her country, or her family had 
never escaped her, although she was talka- 
tive, and at times very boastful. She was 


supposed, however, to have seen the world, 
and to know a great deal. She never went 
out in the evenings, but barricaded herself 
in her cottage as in a fortress. It was well 
known that she got tipsy regularly after 
dinner and went to bed very soon after- 
wards. Rarely had strangers been seen to 
visit her, — two or three times a lady and a 
young man, and upon one occasion two 
gentlemen, — one old and decorated, the 
other young and of a distinguished appear- 
ance; these latter came in a magnificent 
carriage. 

In conclusion, the deceased was held in 
little esteem by her neighbors. Her con- 
versation was often singular, and odious in 
the mouth of a woman of her age. She 
had been heard to give a young girl the 
most detestable counsels. A pork butcher, 
embarrassed in his business, tempted by 
her supposed wealth, had at one time paid 
her his addresses. She declined his ad- 
vances, declaring that to be married once 
was enough for her. At several times two 
men had been seen in her house, the first of 
whom was young and looked like a laborer 
who worked upon the railway; the other 
was a big man, rather elderly, with huge 
brown whiskers and dressed in a blouse, 
who appeared very fierce and even danger- 
ous. These men wt^re suspected to be her 
lovers. 

Having interrogated all his witnesses, the 
commissary proceeded to write out their 
depositions. As he finished the last page, 
the judge of inquiry arrived upon the 
scene, attended by the chief of the detective 
police, and one of his agents. 

M. Daburon was a man thirty-eight 
years of age, well made, and of very pre- 
possessing appearance; sympathetic not- 
withstanding his coldness; wearing upon 
his handsome countenance a calm and 
sweet expression, although tinged with sad- 
ness. This settled melancholy had re- 
mained with him ever since his recovery, 
two years before, from a dreadful malady, 
which had well nigh proved fatal. 

Judge of inquiry since 1859, he had rap- 
idly acquired the most brilliant reputation. 
Laborious, patient, and acute, he knew with 
singular skill how to disentangle the skein 
of the most complicated affair, and from 
the midst of a thousand threads lay hold of 
the right one. None better than he could 
solve those terrible problems where the sign 
x — in algebra, the unknown quantity — 
represents the criminal. Armed with an 
irresistible logic, he deduced the unknown 
from the known, and excelled in collecting 
and uniting in a bundle of overwhelming 
proof facts to others unimportant and cir- 


8 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


cumstances in appearance the most insig- 
nificant. 

Although possessed of qualifications for 
his office so numerous and valuable, he was 
tremblingly distrustful of his own abili- 
ties, and exercised his terrible functions 
with diffidence and hesitation. He wanted 
audacity to risk those coups de . theatre , 
so often resorted to by his contemporaries 
in the pursuit of truth. 

Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to 
deceive even an accused person, or lay 
snares for him ; in fact the mere idea of 
the possibility of a judicial error terrified 
him. They said of him in the courts, “ He 
is a trembler.” What he sought was not pre- 
sumption or conviction, but the most abso- 
lute certainty. No rest for him until the 
day when the accused was forced to bow 
before the evidence; so much so that he 
had been jestingly reproached with seeking 
not to discover criminals but innocents. 

The chief of detective police was none 
other than the celebrated Gevrol, who has 
so often figured in our previous works. He 
was really an able man, but wanting in 
perseverance, and liable to be blinded by 
an incredible obstinacy. If he lost a clew, 
he could not bring himself to acknowledge 
it, still less to retrace his steps. His 
audacity and coolness, however, rendered it 
difficult to disconcert him ; and *being at 
once courageous, and possessed of immense 
personal strength, he never hesitated to 
confront the most daring of malefactors. 

But his specialty, his triumph, his glory, 
”was his memory of faces, so prodigious as 
to exceed belief. Did he see a face for five 
minutes, it was enough. Its possessor was 
catalogued, and, no matter how long the 
interval, recognized on reappearance. The 
impossibilities of place, the unlikelihood of 
circumstances, the most incredible disguises, 
could not lead him astray. What he re- 
membered, he said, was the peculiarities of 
the shape, size, color, and expression of the 
eyes, at which alone he looked, without 
noticing any other features. 

This faculty was severely tested before 
he had been a week at Poissy, by the fol- 
lowing experiment. Three prisoners were 
draped in coverings completely disguising 
their figures. Over their faces were veils, 
allowing nothing of the features to be seen 
except the eyes ; and in this state they were 
shown to Gevrol. 

Without the slightest hesitation he recog- 
nized the prisoners and named them. 

Had chance alone assisted him ? 

The aid-de-camp who attended Gevrol 
was an old offender, reconciled to the law, 
— a jolly fellow, cunning, quick, and useful 


in his way, but secretly jealous of his chief, 
whose abilities he held in light estimation. 
He was named Lecoq. 

The commissary, by this time heartily 
tired of his responsibilities, welcomed the 
judge of inquiry and his agents as liber- 
ators. He related rapidly the facts collected 
in his official report. 

“ You have proceeded well, monsieur,” 
said the judge. “ All is stated clearly ; yet 
there is one fact you have omitted to ascer- 
tain.” 

“ What is that, monsieur ? ” inquired the 
commissary. 

“ On what day was the Widow Lerouge 
last seen, and at what hour ? ” 

“ I am coming to that, monsieur. She 
was seen and spoken to on the evening of 
Shrove Tuesday, at twenty minutes after 
five. She was then returning from Bougi- 
val with a pannier of provisions.” 

“ You are sure of the hour ? ” inquired 
Gevrol. 

“ Perfectly, and for this reason : two wit- 
nesses, the woman Tellier and a cooper who 
lives hard by, alighted from the omnibus 
which leaves Marly every hour, when they 
perceived the widow in the cross-road, and 
hastened to overtake her. They conversed 
with her until they separated at the door 
of her own house.” 

“ And what had she in her pannier ? ” 
demanded the judge of inquiry. 

The witnesses were ignorant. They knew 
only that she carried two bottles of wine 
sealed, and another of brandy. She com- 
plained to them of headache, and said, 
“ While you are going to enjoy yourselves, 
according to custom on Shrove Tuesday, I 
am going to' bed.” 

“So, so ! ” exclaimed the chief of police. 
“ I know where it is necessary to search I ” 

“ You think so ? ” inquired M. Daburon. 

“ Par bleu ! it is clear enough. We want 
to find the large brown man, the gallant 
in the blouse. The brandy and the wine 
were intended for his entertainment. The 
widow expected him to supper. He came, 
sure enough, the amiable gallant 1 ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried the brigadier, evidently 
scandalized, “ she was very old, and ter- 
ribly ugly 1 ” 

Gevrol regarded the honest gendarme 
with an expression of contemptuous pity. 

“Know, brigadier,” said he, “that a 
woman who has money is always young 
and pretty, if she desires to be thought so ! ” 

“ Perhaps there is something in that,” 
replied the judge. “ It did not occur to me. 
I am more impressed by the remark of this 
unfortunate woman, ‘ If I wished for 
any thing more, I could have it. ’ ” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


9 


/ ^KThat also attracted my attention,” 
acquiesced the commissary. 

Gevrol did not take the trouble to listen. 
He held to his own opinion, and began to 
inspect minutely every nook and corner of 
the room. Suddenly he turned towards 
the commissary. 

“ Now that I think of it, ” cried he, 
“ was it not on Tuesday that the weather 
changed ? It had been dry for a fortnight, 
and on that evening it rained. At what 
hour did the rain commence here ? ” 

“ At half-past nine,” answered the brig- 
adier. “ I went out from supper to make 
my circuit of the dancing halls, when I 
was overtaken by a heavy shower opposite 
to the Rue Pecheurs. In less than ten 
minutes there was half an inch of water 
on the pavement.” 

“ Very well,” said Gevrol. “ Then if 
the man came after half-past nine his shoes 
must have been muddy. If dry, he arrived 
sooner. This ought to have been ascer- 
tained before the floor was disturbed. 
Were there any imprints of footsteps, M. le 
commissary ? ” 

“ I must confess we never thought of 
looking for them.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the chief of police, 
in a tone of irritation, “ that is vexatious ! ” 

“ Wait ,” replied the commissary ; “ there 
is yet time to see if there are any, 
— not in this room, but in the other. 
We have there deranged absolutely nothing. 
My footsteps and those of the brigadier 
may be easily distinguished. Let us see.” 

As the commissary opened the door of 
the second chamber, Gevrol stopped him. 

“ I demand permission, M. the judge,” 
said he, “ to examine the apartment before 
any one else is permitted to enter.” 

“ Certainly,” acquiesced Daburon. 

Gevrol passed into the room, the others 
remaining on the threshold. He took in at 
a glance the scene of the crime. 

Every thing, as the commissary had stated, 
seemed to have been overturned by some 
furious madman. 

In the middle of the chamber stood a 
table laid for one person, and covered with 
a fine linen table cloth, white as snow. 
Upon this was placed a magnificent wine- 
glass of the rarest manufacture, a very 
handsome knife, and a plate of the finest 
porcelain. There was an opened bottle of 
wine, hardly touched, and another of 
brandy, from which about five or six petits 
verves had been taken. 

At the right, along the wall, stood two 
handsome cupboards of walnut, with orna- 
mental locks and hinges of brass, one each 
side of the window ; both were empty, and 


the contents scattered on all sides. There 
were clothing, linen, and other effects 
unfolded, tossed about, or smashed to 
pieces. 

At the back, near the chimney, a small 
closet in the wall for holding the plate was 
torn open. At the other side of the chim- 
ney, an old secretary with a marble top had 
been smashed into fragments, and rum- 
maged to its inmost recesses. The desk, 
wrenched away, hung by a single hinge. 
The drawers were pulled out and emptied 
upon the floor; 

At the left of the room the bed had been 
completely disarranged and overturned, 
the bed-ticking cut, and the straw with 
which it was filled thrown out. 

“ Not the slightest imprint,” murmured 
Gevrol, disappointed. “ He must have ar- 
rived before half-past nine. You can all 
come in now.” 

He walked right to the corpse of the 
widow, near which he knelt. 

“ It cannot be said,” grumbled he, “ that 
the work is not properly done ! the assassin 
was no apprentice 1 ” 

Then looking right and left, — 

“ Oh I oh ! ” continued he, “ the poor 
devil was busy with her cooking when he 
struck her ; see her pan of ham and eggs 
upon the hearth. The brute hadn’t patience 
to wait for his dinner. He struck the blow 
fasting ; therefore he can’t invoke the gaiety 
of dessert in his defence 1 ” 

“It is evident,” said the commissary, 
“ that robbery was the motive of this 
crime.” 

“ It is probable,” answered Gevrol in a 
sharp tone ; “ and that accounts for the 
absence of silver on the table. ” 

“ Hold 1 Some pieces of gold in this 
drawer ! ” exclaimed Lecoq, who had been 
searching on his own account, — “ about 
three hundred and twenty francs 1 ” 

“ What ! ” cried Gevrol, a little dis- 
concerted. 

But hd recovered from his embarrass- 
ment quickly, and continued, — 

“ He must have forgotten them ; that 
often happens. I have more than once 
known an assassin, having accomplished 
the murder, so utterly bewildered as to 
depart without remembering the plunder, 
for which he had committed the crime. 
Our man became excited perhaps, or per- 
haps may have been interrupted. Some 
one may have knocked at the door. "What 
makes me more willing to think so is, that 
the scamp did not leave the candle burn- 
ing. You see he took the trouble to ex- 
tinguish it.” 

“ Bart 1 ” said Lecoq. “ That proves 


10 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


nothing. He is probably an economical 
and careful man.” 

The investigations of the two agents 
were continued all through the house ; but 
their most minute researches resulted in 
discovering absolutely nothing; not one 
piece of evidence to convict; not the 
most feeble ;!* nation which might serve 
as a point of departure. Even the dead 
woman’s papers, if she possessed any, had 
disappeared. Not a letter, not a scrap 
of paper even, to be met with. 

From time to time Gevrol stopped to 
swear or grumble. 

“ Oh ! it is a clever piece of work ! See 
what care the scoundrel takes of number 
one ! He is a clever hand I ” 

“ What conclusion do you come to, mon- 
sieur ?” at length demanded the judge of 
inquiry. 

“It is a drawn game, M. the judge,” 
replied Gevrol. “ We arc baffled for the 
present. The miscreant lias taken his meas- 
ures with great precaution ; but, before 
night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit. 
He shall not escape us long. He has car- 
ried off some table silver and some jewels. 
He is lost 1 ” 

“ With all that,” remarked M. Daburon, 
“ we are no further advanced than we 
were this morning.” 

“ Sapristi 1 ” growled Gevrol. “A man 
can only do what he can 1 ” 

“ Confound it ! ” said Lccoq in a low 
tone, perfectly audible, however, “ why is 
not Perc Tiranclaire here ? ” 

“What could he do more than we have 
done ? ” retorted Gevrol, directing a furious 
glance at his subordinate. 

Lecoq stooped his head and was silent, 
inwardly delighted at having wounded his 
chief. 

“ Who and what is this Perc Tirau- 
claire V ” demanded the judge. “It seems 
to me that I have heard the name, but can’t 
think where.” 

“ He is an extraordinary jnan 1 ” ex- 
claimed Lecoq. 

“ He was formerly a pawnbroker’s clerk,” 
added Gevrol ; “ but he is now a rich old 
fellow. His real name is Tabaret ; and he 
has taken to the business of police, as 
others do to painting or music, for amuse- 
ment.” 

“ And to augment his revenues ? ” asked 
the commissary. 

“ He ? ” replied Lecoq. . “ No danger of 
that. He works so much for the glory of 
success that he often spends money from 
his own pocket. It is great amusement for 
him though ! In the service we have nick- 
named him * Tirauclaire,’ because of a 


phrase he is in the habit of repeating. 
Ah 1 he is smart, the old weasel 1 It was he 
who in the case of the banker s wife, 
you remember, discovered the truth, that 
the lady was herself the robber.” 

“ True I ” retorted Gevrol ; “and it was 
he who had poor Deremc beheaded for 
killing his wife ; and all the while the poor 
man was innocent.” 

“ We lose our time, monsieurs,” inter- 
rupted the judge of inquiry. And, address- 
ing himself to Lecoq, he said, — 

“ Go and find Pere Tabaret. I have a 
great desire to speak to him, and shall be 
gh\d to see him at work here.” 

Lecoq started at a run. Gevrol was 
seriously humiliated. 

“ You have the right to demand the ser- 
vices of whom you please,” said he in a 
tone of suppressed passion ; “ but I 
might — ” 

“ Do not annoy yourself, M. Gevrol. I 
have great confidence in your ability. But 
to-day we happen to differ in opinion. 
You hold absolutely to your brown man in 
the blouse, and I am convinced he is not 
the criminal at all ! ” 

“ I believe that. I am right,” replied the 
chief, “ and I hope to prove it ; but I shall 
find the scoundrel, be lie whom he may ! ” 

“ I ask nothing better,” said M. Daburon. 

“ Only if you will permit me to give — what 
shall I say without failing in respect ? — a 
piece of advice ? ” 

“ Speak ! ” 

“ I would advise you to distrust Pbre 

Tabaret.” 

“ Truly ? And for what reason ? ” 

“ The old fellow is too passionate ; he 
owes his success in the police to nothing 
more or less than his invention. And, as he 
is vainer than a peacock, he is apt to overdo 
matters in order to make a sensation. 
When in the presence of a crime like this 
of to-day, for example, he pretends to be 
able to explain every thing on the instant. 
And he will in fact invent a history that will 
be en rapport exactly with the situation. He 
will pretend, unassisted, to reconstruct all 
the scenes of an assassination, as a savant 
who from a single bone reconstructs an 
antideluvian animal. Sometimes, as in the 
case of the banker’s wife, he divines cor- 
rectly ; but at other times he is far out of 
the way, as in the case of the tailor, the 
unfortunate Dereme.” 

“ I thank you for your advice,” said M. 
Daburon, “ and will endeavor to profit by 
it. Now, M. le commissary,” continued lie, 
“ it is most important to ascertain, if possi- 
ble, from what part of the country came the 
Widow Lerouge.” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


ll 


The procession of witnesses marshalled 
by the brigadier commenced to pass before 
the judge of inquiry. 

But nothing new was elicited. It was 
evident that the Widow Lerouge had been 
during her lifetime a singularly discrete 
woman ; for, although talkative, nothing in 
any waj connected with her antecedents 
remained in the memory of the gossips of 
Joncliere. 

All the people interrogated tried obsti- 
nately to impart to the judge their own 
convictions and personal conjectures. Pub- 
lic opinion sided with Gevrol. With one 
voice, the assembly denounced the big brown 
man of the grey blouse. He must surely 
be the culprit. Every one remembered his 
ferocious aspect, and how, struck by his 
suspicious appearance, they had wisely 
avoided him. He had one evening menaced 
a woman, and another day beaten a child. 
They could point out neither the child nor 
the woman ; but no matter : these brutal acts 
were notoriously public. 

M. Daburon began to despair of gaining 
the least enlightenment, when some one 
brought a grocer of Bougival, at whose shop 
the victim used to purchase her provisions, 
and a child thirteen years old, who knew, 
it was said, something positive. 

The grocer first made her appearance. 

She had heard the Widow Lerouge 
speak of having a son yet living. 

“ Are you quite sure of this ? ” demanded 
the judge. 

“As of my existence,” answered the 
grocer. “ One evening, — yes, it was eve- 
ing, — she was, saving your presence, a 
little tipsy, — she remained in my store 
more than an hour.” 

“ And she said, — ” 

“ I think I see her now,” continued the 
grocer ; “ she was leaning against the coun- 
ter near the scales. She was jesting with 
a fisherman of Marly, Father Husson, who 
can tell you the same ; and she called him a 
fresh water sailor. ‘ My husband/ said she, 
‘ would sometimes remain a couple of years 
on a voyage, and used to bring me back 
cocoanuts. I have a boy who is also a 
sailor, like his dead father, — a sailor in the 
navy.’ ” 

“ Did she mention her son’s name ? ” 

“ Not that evening ; but another even- 
ing, when she was, if I must say it, drunk, 
she told us that her son was called Jacoues, 
and she had not seen him for a very long 
time.” 

“ Did she speak ill of her husband ? ” 

“ Never 1 she only said he was jealous 
and brutal, and used to beat her unmerci- 
fully ; but he was a good man at bottom, and 


made her life miserable. He had a weak 
head, and forged ideas out of nothing. In 
fact, he was a very stupid brute, but a very 
good, kind man.” 

“ Did her son ever come to see her while 
she lived here ? ” 

“ She never told me of it.” 

“ Did she spend much money with you ? ” 
“ As it might happen. About sixty 
francs a month ; sometimes more, when she 
bought some old brandy. She was good 
pay, poor woman 1 ” 

The grocer, knowing no more, was dis- 
missed. ' 

The child, who was now brought forward, 
belonged to parents in easy circumstances. 
Tall and strong for his age, he had bright 
intelligent eyes, and features expressive of 
watchfulness and cunning. The presence 
of the judge did not intimidate him. 

“Let us hear, my boy,” said the judge, 
“ what you know.” 

“ Monsieur, a few days ago, — Sunday 
last, — I saw a man at Madame Lerouge’s 
garden-gate.” 

“ At what time of the day ? ” 

“ In the morning. I was going to church, 
to serve the second mass.” 

“ Well,” continued the judge, “and this 
was a big brown man, dressed in a blouse V ” 
“ No, monsieur : he was short, very fat, 
and old.” 

“ You are sure you are not mistaken ? ” 

“ Certain, monsieur,” replied the urchin, 
“ I saw hiln close, face to face ; I spoke to 
him.” 

“ Tell me, then, what occurred ? ” 

“ Well, monsieur, I was passing, when I 
saw this fat man at the gate. He appeared 
very much vexed, — oh ! vexed awfully I His 
face was red, or rather purple, as far as the 
middle of his head, which I could see very 
well ; for it was bare, and had very little 
hair on it.” 

“ And did he speak to you first ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, lie saw me, and called 
out, ‘ Halloa 1 little fellow 1 ’ I went up to 
him ; and he asked me if I had got a good 
pair of legs ? I answered, yes. Then he 
took me by the ear, but without hurt- 
ing me, and said, ‘ Since that is so, if you 
will run an errand for me, I will give you 
ten sous. Run as far as the Seine ; and, 
when you reach the quay, you will see a 
large sloop moored. Go on board, and ask 
to see the captain, Gervais : he will be there. 
Tell him that he can slip his cable, — that I 
am ready.’ Then he put ten sous in my 
hand ; and I went.” 

“ If all the witnesses were like this bright 
little fellow,” murmured the commissary, 
“ what a pleasure it would be I ” 


12 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ Now,” said the judge, “ tell us how you 
executed your commission ? ” 

“ I went to the sloop, monsieur, and found 
the man, and I told him ; and that’s all.” 

Gevrol, who had listened with the most 
lively attention, leaned over towards the 
ear of M. Daburon. 

“M. le judge,” said he in a low voice, 

“ will you permit me to ask the boy a few 
questions ? ” 

“ Certainly, M. Gevrol.” 

“ Tell us, my little friend,” asked Gevrol, 
“if you saw this man again, would you 
know him ? ” 

“Oh, yes I” 

“ Then there was something remarkable 
about him ? ” 

“ Yes, I should think so ! his face was like 
a brickbat I ” 

“ And is that all ? ” 

“ Well, yes, monsieur.” 

“ Can you remember how he was 
dressed ? had he a blouse ? ” 

“ No : it was a vest. Under the arms it 
had large pockets ; and from one of them 
peeped out the half of a blue spotted pocket 
handkerchief.” 

“ How were his pantaloons ? ” 

“ I do not remember them.” 

“ And his under vest ?” 

“ Let me see,” answered the child. “ I 
don’t think he wore an undervest. And 
yet, — but no, I remember he did not wear 
one : he had a long cravat, fastened near his 
neck by a large ring.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Gevrol with an air of satis- 
faction, “ you are a bright boy ; and I 
wager that, if you try hard to remember, 
you can find more particulars than those 
you have given us.” 

The boy dropped his head, and remained 
silent. From the knitting of his young 
brows, it was plain he was making a violent 
effort of memory. “ Yes, ” cried he sud- 
denly, “ I remember another thing.” 

“ WhatX” 

“ The man wore very large rings in his 
ears.” 

“ Bravo I ” cried Gevrol, “ here is an 
identification complete. I shall find this 
gentleman with the ear-rings again. M. the 
judge may prepare a warrant for his ar- 
rest. ” 

“ I believe, indeed, the testimony of this 
child is of the highest importance,” re- 
plied M. Daburon ; and he turned to the 
boy. 

“ Can you tell us, my little friend, with 
what this sloop was loaded ?” demanded 
M. Daburon. 

“ No, monsieur, I couldn’t see, because it 
was decked.” 


“ Which way was she going, up the river 
or down ? ” 

“ Neither, monsieur ; she was moored.” 

“ Now think well,” said Gevrol. “ The 
judge asks you which way the bow of the 
sloop was turned, — towards Paris or towards 
Marly ?” 

“ The two ends of a sloop are alike to 
me.” 

The chief of police made a gesture of 
disappointment. 

“ At least,” said he, addressing the child 
again, “ you noticed the name of the sloop ? 
You can read I suppose ; you must surely 
have seen the name of the vessel you went 
aboard of ? ” 

“ No, I didn’t see any name,” said the 
little boy. 

“If this sloop was moored a few steps 
from the quay, ” remarked M. Dabu- 
ron, “ it was probably noticed by the inhab- 
itants of Bougival. ” 

“ That is true,” approved the commissa- 
ry. 

“ Besides,” said Gevrol, “ the sailors 
must have come ashore. I shall find out all 
about it at the wine shop. But this Capt. 
Gervais, my little friend, what was he 
like?” 

“ Like all the sailors hereabouts, mon- 
sieur. ” 

The child was preparing to depart, when 
the judge recalled him. 

“ Before you depart, my child, tell me, 
have you spoken to any one of this meet- 
ing before to-day ? ” 

“ I told all to mamma, when I got back 
from church, and gave her the ten sous. ” 

“ And you have told us all the truth ? ” 
continued the judge. “ You know that it is 
a grave matter to attempt to impose on jus- 
tice • she always discovers the truth ; and it 
is my duty to warn you that she inflicts the 
most terrible punishment upon liars. ” 

The little fellow blushed, and dropped 
his eyes. 

“ I see,” pursued Daburon, “ that you 
have concealed something from us. Don’t 
you know that the police are not to be 
trifled with ? ” 

“ Pardon, monsieur, ” cried the boy, 
bursting into tears, — “ pardon. Don’t pun- 
ish me, and I will never do so again.” 

“ Tell us, then, how you have deceived 
us ? ” 

“ It was not ten sous, monsieur, that the 
man gave me, it was twenty sous. I only 
gave half to mamma ; and I kept the rest to 
buy marbles with.” 

“ My little friend, ” interrupted the judge, 
“ for this time I forgive you. But let it be 
a lesson for the remainder of your life. Re- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


13 


member it is vain to hide the truth ; it al- 
ways comes to light ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

The two last depositions awakened in 
Daburon’s mind some slight gleams of hope. 
In the midst of darkness, the humblest rush- 
light acquires brilliancy. 

“ I will go at once to Bougival, if you 
approve,” suggested Gevrol. 

“ Perhaps it would be as well to wait a 
little, ” answered Daburon. “ This man 
was seen on Sunday morning : we might 
inquire into the Widow Lerouge’s move- 
ments on that day.” 

Three neighbors were called. They all 
declared that the widow had kept her bed 
all Sunday. To one woman who had 
visited her, hearing that she was sick, she 
said, “ Ah ! I have had this day a terrible 
adventure.” Nobody at the time attached 
any importance to these words. 

“ The man with the rings in his ears 
becomes more and more important,” said 
the judge, when the women had retired. 
“ To find him again is indispensable : this 
you will take care of, M. Gevrol.” 

“ Before eight days, I shall have him,” 
replied the chief of police, “ if I have to 
search every vessel on the Seine, from its 
source to the ocean. I know the name of 
the captain, — Gervaise. The bureau of 
navigation may tell me the rest.” 

He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed 
into the house breathless. 

“ Here is Pere Tabaret,” said he. “I 
met him setting out. What a man ! He 
wouldn’t wait for the train, but paid I don’t 
know how much for a carriage ; and we 
drove here in fifty minutes ! ” 

Almost immediately an old man ap- 
peared at the door, whose aspect bore little 
resemblance to the ideal portraits of the 
secret agent of police. 

His round face wore an expression of per- 
petual astonishment, mingled with uneasi- 
ness, which would have made the fortunes of 
a dozen comic actors of the “ Palais Royale.” 
Scrupulously shaved, he presented a very 
short chin, large and good natured lips, and 
a nose disagreeably elevated, like the broad 
end of a Saxe horn. His eyes, of a dull 
grey, were small, bordered by rings, of scar- 
let, and absolutely void of expression ; yet 
they fatigued the observer by their insup- 
portable restlessness. Thin hairs brushed 
flat upon his head, light as the fur of a 
rabbit, barely concealed his long ears, 


which were large, wide, and spreading away 
from the skull. 

He was comfortably dressed, neat as a 
new franc piece, displaying linen of daz- 
zling whiteness, and wearing silk gloves 
and leather gaiters. A long and massive 
chain of gold, of a deplorable taste, was 
twisted thrice round his neck, and fell in 
cascades to his vest-pocket. 

Pere Tabaret, surnamed Tiranclair, 
standing at the threshold, bowed almost to 
the ground, bending his old back into an 
arch, and in the humblest of voices de- 
manded, — 

“ The judge of inquiry has deigned to 
send for m%.” 

“ Yes,” replied Daburon, adding under 
his breath ; “ and, if you are a man of any 
ability, there is at least nothing to indicate 
it in your appearance.” 

“ I am here,” continued the old fellow, 
“completely at the service of justice.” 

“ I wish to know,” replied the judge, 
“ whether you cannot, with more success 
than has attended our efforts, discover 
some indication that may serve to put us 
upon the track of the author of this atro- 
cious crime. I will explain the — ” 

“ Oh, I know enough of it ! ” interrupted 
Pere Tabaret. “Lecoq has told me as 
much as I desire to know.” 

“ Nevertheless,” commenced the com- 
missary, “ if you will permit me, I prefer 
to proceed without receiving any informa- 
tion, in order to be more fully master of 
my own impressions. If you know an- 
other’s opinion, it can’t help influencing your 
judgment. I will, if you please, at once 
commence my researches, with Lecoq’s as- 
sistance.” 

As the old fellow spoke, his little grey 
eyes dilated, and became brilliant as car- 
buncles. His face reflected an internal 
satisfaction; even his wrinkles seemed to 
laugh. His figure became erect, his step 
almost elastic, as lie darted rather than 
walked into the second chamber. 

He remained there about half an hour ; 
then came out running, then re-entered 
and came out again ; again re-entered, and 
again reappeared almost immediately. The 
judge could not help comparing him to a 
pointer on the scent ; restless and active, he 
ran hither and thither, carrying his nose 
in the air, as if to discover some subtle odor 
left by the assassin. All the while he 
talked loudly and with much gesticulation, 
apostrophizing himself, scolding himself, 
uttering little cries of triumph or self-en- 
couragement. He did not allow Lecoq to 
have a moment’s rest. He wanted this or 
that or the other thing. He demanded pa- 


14 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


per and a pencil. Then he wanted a 
spade ; and finally he cried out for plaster 
of Paris and a bottle of oil. With these 
he left the cottage. 

When more than an hour had elapsed, 
the judge of inquiry began to lose patience, 
and asked what had become of the amateur 
detective. 

“ He is on the road,” replied the briga- 
dier, “ lying flat in the mud. He has mixed 
the plaster'in a plate. He says he is nearly 
finished, and that he is coming back pres- 
ently.” 

Tabaret entered almost instantly, joy- 
ous, triumphant, looking at least twenty 
years younger. Lecoq followed him, carry- 
ing with the utmost precaution a large 
pannier. 

“ I have it 1 ” said he to the judge, “ com- 
pletely. It is as plain as noonday. Lecoq, 
my lad, put the pannier on the table.” 

Gevrol at this moment returned from his 
expedition equally delighted. 

“ I am on the track of the man with the 
rings in his ears,” said he ; “ the sloop went 
down the river. I have obtained an exact 
description of Capt. Gervaise.” 

“ What have you done, M. Tabaret ? ” 
said the judge of inquiry. 

The old fellow carefully emptied upon 
the table the contents of the pannier, — a 
huge lump of potter’s clay, several large 
sheets of paper, and three or four small 
morsels of plaster yet damp. Standing 
behind this table, he presented a grotesque 
resemblance to a mountebank conjurer, who 
in the public squares makes puddings in 
hats, swallows swords, and eats fire. His 
dress was in a singular state ; he was mud 
to the chin. 

“ In the first place,” said he, at last, in a 
tone of affected modesty, “ robbery has 
had nothing to do with the crime that oc- 
cupies our attention.” 

“ On the contrary,” — muttered Gevrol. 

“ I shall prove it,” continued Pere Taba- 
ret, “ by the evidence. By-and-by I shall 
offer my humble opinion as to the real 
motive. 

“ In the second place, the assassin arrived 
here before half-past nine ; that is to say, 
before the rain fell. No more than M. Gev- 
rol have I been able to discover traces of 
muddy footsteps ; but under the table, on 
the spot where his feet rested, I find dust. 
We are thus assured of the hour. The 
widow did not expect her visitor. She had 
commenced undressing, and was about to 
wind up her cuckoo clock when he 
knocked.” 

“ These are absolute details 1 ” cried the 
commissary. 


“ But easily established,” replied the 
araiteur. “ Examine this cuckoo clock ; it 
is one of those which run fourteen or fifteen 
hours at most. Now it is more than prob- 
able, it is certain, that the widow wound 
it up every evening before going to bed. 

“How, then, should the clock have 
stopped at nine ? She must have touched 
it at that hour. At the moment she 
was drawing the chain, the assassin knocked. 
In proof, I show this chair below the 
clock, and on the seat a very plain mark 
of a foot. Now look at the dress of the 
victim. The waist of her gown is taken 
off. In order to open the door more quick- 
ly, she did not wait to put it on again, but 
hastily threw an old shawl over her shoul- 
ders.” 

“ Sapristi ! ” exclaimed the brigadier, 
evidently filled with admiration. 

“The widow,” continued the old fellow, 
“ knew the person who knocked. Her 
haste to open the door gives rise to this 
conjecture ; what follows proves it. The 
assassin then gained admission without 
difficulty. He was a young man, a little 
above the middle height, elegantly dressed. 
He wore on that evening a high hat. He 
carried an umbrella, and smoked a trabu- 
cos with a cigar-holder.” 

“ Ridiculous 1 ” cried Gevrol. “ This is 
too strong.” 

“ Too strong for you perhaps,” retorted 
Pfcre Tabaret. “ At all events, it is the 
truth. If you have not been minute in 
your examinations, there is no reason why 
I shouldn’t be. I search, and I find. Too 
strong, say you? Well, deign to glance 
at these morsels of damp plaster. They rep- 
resent the heels of the boots worn by the 
assassin, of which I found a most per- 
fect impression near the ditch, where 
the key was picked up. On these 
sheets of paper, I have marked in 
outline the imprint of the foot which I 
cannot take up, because it is in the gravel. 

“ Lode 1 heel high, instep pronounced, 
sole small and narrow, — an elegant boot, 
belonging to a foot well cared for evident- 
ly. Look for this impression all along the 
road ; and you will find it twice repeated: 
Then you will find it five times repeated 
in the garden ; and these footprints prove, 
by the way, that the stranger knocked not 
at the door, but at the window-shutter, be- 
neath which shone a gleam of light. Near 
the entrance of the garden, the man made a 
leap to avoid a square flower-bed ; the 
point of the foot, more deeply imprinted 
than usual, shows it. He leaped more than 
two yards with case, proving that he is 
active, and therefore young.” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


15 


Pfere Tabaret spoke now in a low voice, 
but clear and penetrating; and his eye 
glanced from one to the other of his audi- 
tors, watching the impression ho was mak- 
ing. 

“Does the hat astonish you, Gevrol ? ” 
pursued Pere Tabaret. “Just look at this 
circle traced in the dust on the marble of 
the secretary. That was where he placed 
li is hat : so we arrive at the shape and 
size of the crown ; and the height is, at 
least, presumable. Now the assassin put 
his hands on the top shelf of the cupboard, 
to get at its contents. If he had been a 
very tall man, he could have seen them 
without touching the shelf ; and, if a very 
short man, he would have stood upon a 
chair ; consequently he must have been a 
little above the middle height. You seem 
troubled about the umbrella and the cigar- 
holder; but they arc very simple. This 
lump of earth preserves an admirable im- 
pression, not only of the point, but even of 
the little wooden shield which holds the 
silk. Then as for the cigar, here is the 
end of a Trabucos that I found in the ashes. 
Is it bitten ? No. Has it been moistened 
with saliva ? No. Then he who smoked it 
used a cigar-holder.” 

Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusi- 
astic admiration, and noiselessly rubbed his 
hands. The commissary appeared stupe- 
fied, while the judge was delighted. Gev- 
rol’s face, on the contrary, was sensibly 
elongated. As for the brigadier, he was 
overwhelmed. 

“ Now,” continued the old fellow, “ follow 
me closely. We have traced the young 
man into the house. How he explained his 
presence at this hour, I do not know ; this 
much is certain, he told the widow he had 
not dined. The honest woman was de- 
lighted to hear it, and at once set to work to 
prepare a meal. This meal was not for 
herself; for in the cupboard I find the re- 
mains of her dinner. She had dined on 
fish : the autopsy will confirm the truth 
of this conjecture. You can see the rest 
for yourself. There is but one glass on the 
table, and one knife. Who was this young 
man ? Evidently the widow looked upon 
him as a man of rank superior to her own ; 
for, in the small plate-closet is a table-cloth 
suitable enough for her, but not at all good 
enough for him. For her guest, she 
brought out one of white linen, and much 
handsomer. For him she sets this mag- 
nificent glass — a present, no doubt — and 
this knife with the ivory handle.” 

“ That is all true,” murmured the judge, 
— “ very true.” 

« Now, then, wo have got the young man i 


seated. He began by drinking a glass of 
wine, while the widow was putting her pan 
on the fire. Then, his heart failing him, ho 
called for brandy, and swallowed about five 
petite verres. After an internal struggle 
of ten minutes (the time it must have 
taken to cook the ham and eggs to the 
point they have reached), the young man 
arose and approached the widow, who was 
leaning forward over her cooking. He 
stabbed ]ier twice in the back ; but she was 
not killed instantly. She half arose, seiz- 
ing the assassin by the hands ; while he drew 
back, lifting her rudely, and then hurling 
her down in the position in which you see 
her. 

“ This short struggle is indicated by the 
posture of the body ; for, wounded in the 
back, it is on her back she ought natural- 
ly to have fallen. The weapon used was 
sharp and pointed, and, unless I am deceived, 
was the end of a foil, broken off and sharp- 
ened. By wiping the weapon upon his 
victim’s skirt, the assassin leaves us this 
indication. He was not, however, hurt in 
the struggle, though the victim must have 
clung with a death-grip to his hands ; but, 
as he has not left his gray gloves,” — 

“Gloves! Why, this is romance,” ex- 
claimed Gevrol. 

“ Have you examined the dead woman’s 
finger-nails, M. Gevrol ? No. Well, do 
so, and then tell me whether I am de- 
ceived. 

“ The woman, now dead, we come to the 
object of her assassination. What did 
this well-dressed young gentleman want? 
Money ? valuables ? No ! no ! a hundred 
times, no ! What he wanted, what he sought, 
and what he found, were papers, documents, 
letters, which he knew to be in the 
possession of this unfortunate woman. To 
find them, he has overturned every thing, 
upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen, 
broken open the secretary, of which he 
could not find the key, and even emptied 
the mattress of the bed. 

“ At last he found them ; and then what 
did he do ? Burned them, of course ; not 
in the chimney, but in the little stove in 
the front chamber. His end accomplished, 
what docs he then ? He flics, carrying with 
him all that he finds valuable, to mislead 
pursuit, and baffle detection, by indicating 
a robbery. Having bundled them together, 
he wrapped these valuables in the napkin 
which was to have served him at dinner; 
and, blowing out the candle, he fled, locking 
the door, and afterwards throwing the kev 
into the ditch. 

“ That is my idea of the case, M. the 
judge.” 


16 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ M. Tabaret,” said the jud^e, “ your 
investigation is admirable ; and I am per- 
suaded your inferences are correct.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried Lecoq, “ is he not colos- 
sal ? Papa Tiranclair 7 ” 

“ Pyramidal 1 ” cried Gevrol ironically. 
“ I fear, however, your well-dressed young 
man must have been much embarrassed in 
carrying a bundle at once so inconvenient 
and so remarkable.” 

“ He did not carry it a hundred leagues,” 
responded Pere Tabaret. “ You may well 
believe, that, to reach the railway station, 
he would not risk taking the omnibus. No, 
he returned on foot by the shortest way, to 
the edge of the water. Now, on arriving at 
the Seine, it will not be too strong, I hope, 
to suppose his first care was to throw into it 
this tell-tale bundle.” 

“ Do you believe so, Papa Tiranclair ? ’* 
demanded Gevrol. 

“ I will wager on it ; and the best evidence 
of my belief is, that I have sent three men, 
under the surveillance of a gendarme, to 
drag the Seine at the nearest spot. If they 
succeed in finding the bundle, I have 
promised them a recompense.” 

“ From your own pocket, old enthu- 
siast ? ” 

“ Yes, M. Gevrol, from my own pocket.” 

“ If they find this bundle, however, — ” 
murmured the judge. 

He was interrupted by the entrance of 
a gendarme. 

“ Here,”said he, — “ here is a soiled table- 
napkin, filled with plate, silver, and jewels, 
which these men have found ; they claim 
the hundred francs’ reward, promised 
them.” 

Pere Tabaret took from his pocket-book 
a bank bill, which he handed to the gen- 
darme. 

“ Now,” demanded he, ignoring M. Gevrol 
with a superb disdain, “ what thinks M. the 
judge of inquiry ? ” 

“ That, thanks to your penetration, we 
shall come to the point, — ” 

He did not finish. The doctor sum- 
moned to make the post mortem examina- 
tion appeared. 

That unpleasant task accomplished, it 
only confirmed the assertions and conjec- 
tures of Pere Tabaret. The doctor explained 
as he had the position of the body. In his 
opinion, there had been a brief but fierce 
struggle. He pointed out a bluish circle, 
hardly perceptible, round the neck of the 
victim, produced apparently by the power- 
ful grasp of the murderer ; then he declared 
the Widow Lerouge had dined three hours 
before being struck. 

Nothing now remained except to collect 


the fragments of evidence received, which 
might at a later period confound the culprit. 

Pere Tabaret examined with extreme 
care the dead woman’s fingers ; and, using 
infinite precaution, he even extracted from 
beneath the nails several small particles of 
gray kid. The largest of these fragments 
was not above two millemetres in length ; 
but their color was easily distinguishable. 
He put aside also the part of the dress 
upon which the assassin had wiped the 
weapon. These, with the bundle recov- 
ered from the Seine, and the cast of the 
footprints taken by the old fellow, were all 
the traces the murderer had left behind 
him. 

It was nothing ; but this nothing was enor- 
mous in the eyes of M. Daburon : and he 
had strong hopes of discovering the culprit. 
The greatest obstacle to success in the un- 
ravelling of mysterious crime is in mistak- 
ing the motive. If the researches take at 
the first step a false direction, they are 
diverted further and further from the truth, 
in proportion to the length they are fol- 
lowed. Thanks to Pfere Tabaret, the judge 
felt confident that he was in the right path. 

Night had come on. The judge had noth- 
ing more to do at Jonchere; but Gevrol, who 
still clung to his own opinion of the guilt of 
the man with the rings in his ears, declared 
he would remain at Bougival. He deter- 
mined to employ the evening in visiting the 
different wine shops, and finding if possible 
new witnesses. 

At the moment of departure, after the 
commissary and the entire party had re- 
ceived their congee from M. Daburon, the 
latter asked Pere Tabaret to accompany 
him. 

“Iwas^about to solicit that honor,” re- 
plied the old fellow. They set out together ; 
and naturally the crime which had been 
discovered, and with which they were 
mutually preoccupied, formed the subject 
of their conversation. 

“ Can we, or can we not, ascertain the 
antecedents of this woman ? ” repeated 
Pere Tabaret. “ All depends upon that, 
after all!” 

“We shall ascertain them, if the grocer 
has told the truth,” replied M. Daburon. 
“ If the Widow Lerouge has had a hus- 
band a sailor, and there is now a son of 
hers named Jacques in the navy, the 
minister of marine can furnish information 
that will lead to its discovery. I will write 
to the minister this very night.” 

They arrived at the station at Reuil, and 
took their places in the train. They were 
so fortunate as to secure a compartment to 
themselves. 


\ 

i noi 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


17 


But Pere Tabaret was nbt disposed for 
-conversation. He reflected, he sought, he 
combined ; and in his face might easily be 
read the working of his thoughts. The 
judge felt singularly attracted by this ec- 
centric old man, whose very original taste 
had led him to devote his services to the bu- 
reau of secret police in the Rue Jerusalem. 

“ M. Tabaret,” demanded he brusquely, 
M have you been long associated with the 
police V ” 

“ Nine years, M. the judge, — more than 
nine years ; and permit me to confess I am 
a little surprised that you have never be- 
fore heard of me.” 

“I certainly know you by reputation,” 
answered M. Daburon ; “ and it was in con- 
sequence of hearing of your talent that 
the excellent idea of asking your assis- 
tance occurred to me. But what was 
the occasion of your adopting this employ- 
ment ? ” 

“ Chagrin, M. the judge, isolation, 
ennui. Ah ! I have not always been 
happy ! ” 

“ I hear, though, that you are rich.” 

The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, as he 
recalled what seemed to him the cruelest 
deception. “ I am well off, monsieur,” re- 
plied he ; “ but I have not always been. 
Until I was forty-five years old, my life was 
a series of absurd and useless privations. 
I had a father who ruined my youth, wasted 
my manhood, antkmade me the most pitia- 
ble of human creatures.” 

There are men who can never divest 
themselves of their professional habits. 
M. Daburon was at all times and seasons a 
little of a judge of inquiry. 

“ How, M. Tabaret, ” said he, “ your 
father the author of your misfortunes ? ” 

“ Alas, yes, monsieur ! I have forgiven 
him long since ; but once I cursed him. 
In the first transports of my resentment, I 
heaped upon his memory all the injuries 
that can be inspired by the most violent 
hatredt Even now, when I think, — but I 
will confide to you my history M. Daburon. 

“ When I was five and twenty years of 
age, I was earning two thousand francs a 
year, as clerk in a pawnbroker’s. One 
morning my father entered my apartment, 
and announced to me abruptly that he was 
ruined, and wanted food and shelter. He 
appeared in despair, and declared he had 
done with life. I loved my father. Nat- 
urally, I strove to reassure him. I boasted 
of my situation, and explained to him at 
some length, that, while I earned the means 
of living, he should want for nothing ; and, 
to commence, I insisted that henceforth we 
should live together. No sooner said than 


done ; and during twenty years, the best 
twenty years of my life, I was encumbered 
with the old, — ” 

“ How ? you repent of your filial conduct, 
M. Tabaret ? ” 

“ Yes, I do repent of it ; that is to say, I 
wish the old wretch had received his des- 
erts ; for then he would have been poisoned 
by the bread which I gave him.” 

Daburon was unable to repress a gesture 
of surprise, which did not escape the old 
fellow’s notice. 

“ Hear, before you condemn me,” said he. 
“ There I was at twenty-five, imposing upon 
myself the severest privations for sake of 
my father, — no more friends,, no more flir- 
tations, nothing. In the evenings, to aug- 
ment our scanty revenues, I worked at copy- 
ing law papers for a notary. I denied my- 
self even the luxury of a cigar. Notwith- 
standing, the old skinflint complained with- 
out ceasing. He regretted his lost fortune. 
He wanted pocket-money. He wanted this, 
he wanted that. My utmost exertions failed 
to satisfy him. Ah, heaven alone knows 
what I have suffered ! I was not born to 
live alone to old age, like a dog. I longed 
for the pleasures of a home and a family. 
My dream of happiness was marriage, — an 
adored wife, by whom I might be loved a 
little, innocent little ones gambolling about 
my knees ; but pshaw ! when such thoughts 
entered my heart and forced a tear or two 
from my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I 
said : ‘ My lad, when you earn but three 
thousand francs a year, and have an old 
and cherished father to support, it is your 
duty to stifle such desires, and remain a 
bachelor.’ In the mean time, I fell in love. 
Hold, do not laugh at me. I was but 
thirty years of age then ; and, old' and ugly 
as I am now, I was a good looking fellow at 
that time. She, — she was called Hortense. 
I could not marry her and continue to pro- 
vide for him. Who can tell what became 
of her ? I lost sight of her. She waited 
long ; but, alas ! she was pretty and poor. 
When my father died, and let me free, I 
was an old man. The miserable, miserly 
old, — ” 

“ M. Tabaret ! ” interrupted the judge, 
— “ M. Tabaret ! ” 

“ Yes, yes, monsieur, I have forgiven him 
long ago. I am a good Christian ; but you 
will understand my anger when I tell you, 
the day of his death, looking in his secre- 
tary in the hope of finding enough to bury 
the old hypocrite, I found a memorandum 
of twenty thousand francs of rent ! ” 

“ He was rich, then ? ” 

“ Yes, very rich ; for that was not all : he 
owned near Orleans a property leased for 
2 


18 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


six thousand francs a year. He owned, 
besides, the house I now live in, where we 
lived together ; and I fool, sot, imbecile, 
stupid animal that I was, used to pay the 
rent every three months to the con- 
cierge I ” 

“ Cruel fortune ! ” M. Daburon could 
not help saying. 

“ Was it not, monsieur? I was robbing 
myself of my own money ! To crown the 
absurdity, he left a testament, wherein he 
declared he had no other aim in view, in 
thus acting, than my advantage. He 
wished, he said, to habituate me to habits of 
good order and economy, and keep me from 
the commission of follies. And so, monsieur, 
I was at forty-five a rich man, who for 
twenty years could not accuse himself of 
having expended uselessly a single sou. 
In short, he had speculated on my good 
heart to rob me of my life's happiness. 
Bah ! it is enough to disgust the human 
race with filial piety.” 

M. Tabaret’s anger, albeit very real, was 
so highly ludicrous in its effect upon his 
features and gesture that the judge had 
much difficulty to restrain his laughter, 
although touched with pity at the recital. 

“ After all,” said he, “ this fortune ought 
to give you pleasure.” 

“ No, monsieur, it came too late. Of what 
avail to have the bread when one has no 
longer the teeth ? 

“ The best part of life was gone, the 
age of happiness had passed. I resigned 
my situation at the pawnbroker’s, to make 
way for some other poor devil, and became 
a gentleman at large. At the end of a 
month, I was ennuied to death ; and, to re- 
place the interest in life I despaired of 
gaining, I resolved to give myself a passion, 
a hobby, a mania. I became a collector of 
books. You think perhaps, monsieur, that 
to take an interest in books a man must 
have studied, must be learned ? ” 

“ No, monsieur ; but he must have money. 
I am acquainted with an illustrious biblo- 
maniac who actually cannot read his own 
name.” 

“ It is very possible, monsieur : but I could 
read ; and I read all the books I bought, and 
mine is an unique collection. It consists 
of all the works I could find, far or near, 
that related aught concerning the police. 
Memoirs, reports, discourses, letters, — all 
were delightful to me ; and I devoured them 
as Don Quixote did the books of chiv- 
alry. 

“ Reading these adventures so exciting 
and so real, I became little by little attrac” 
ted towards this mysterious power which 
from the obscurity of the Rue Jerusalem 


watches over and protects society from 
fraud and violence, — that unseen hand 
that lifts the most impervious veil ; that 
invisible eye that sees through every plot ; 
that unknown intelligence that divines 
even the secrets of men’s hearts, knows to 
a grain weight the worth of women’s repu- 
tation and the price of men’s integrity ; 
that universal confidant who keeps in her 
secret record the most terrible as well as 
the most shameful confessions ! 

“In reading the memoirs of celebrated 
police agents (more attractive matter to 
me than the fables of our best authors), I 
became inspired by an enthusiastic admi- 
ration for those men, so untiring in pursuit, 
so fertile in expedient, who follow crime to 
his stronghold as relentlessly as the sav- 
ages of Cooper pursue their enemies in the 
depths of the American forest. The desire 
seized me to become a wheel of this admir- 
able machine, — a small assistance in the 
punishment of crime and the triumph of 
innocence. I have made the essay ; and I 
am proud to say, monsieur, I find I have not 
mistaken my vocation.” 

“ Then this employment pleases you V ” 

“I owe to it, monsieur, my liveliest enjoy- 
ments. Adieu ennui ! Since I have aban- 
doned the pursuit of old worm-eaten books 
for this to which I am equal, I am happy. 

I shrug the shoulder when I see a foolish 
fellow pay twenty-five francs for the right 
of hunting a hare. What a prize ! Give me 
the hunting of a man ! That calls the facul- 
ties into play, and the victory is not inglori- 
ous ! The game in my sport is worth the 
hunter. He has against him intelligence, 
force, and cunning. The arms are nearly 
equal. Ah ! if people knew the excitement 
of these parties of hide and seek which are 
played between the criminal and the detec- 
tive, everybody would be wanting employ- 
ment at the bureau of secret police. The 
misfortune is, that the art is being lost be- 
cause fine crimes are rare. The race of 
strong criminals, fearless and ingenious, has 
given place to a mob of vulgar pickers and 
stealers, hardly worth hunting after, — blun- 
derers as well as. cowards, who sign their 
names to their misdeeds, and even leave 
you their cartes de visite. There is no 
merit in catching them : their work examin- 
ed, nothing remains but their arrest.” 

“ It seems to me,” said M. Daburon, smil- 
ing, “ that our assassin is not such a bun- 
gler.” 

“ This case, monsieur, is an exception ; 
and I shall have the greater delight in tra- 
cing him : and I will trace him, though I 
should compromise myself in the pursuit. 
For I ought to confess, M. le judge,” added 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


19 


he with a ludicrous embarrassment, “ that I 
do not boast to my friends of my exploits, 
but conceal them as carefully as possible. 
They would join hands with me less warm- 
ly did they know that Tiranclair acid Tab- 
aret are one.” 

Insensibly the crime became again the sub- 
ject of conversation. It was agreed, that, 
in the morning, Pere Tabaret should instal 
himself at Bougival. He could by hard work 
examine all the peasants in the country in 
eight days. On his side the judge prom- 
ised to keep him advised of the least evi- 
dence that transpired, and recall him, if by 
any accident he should procure the papers 
of the Widow Lerouge. 

“ To you, M. Tabaret, ” said the judge 
in conclusion, “I shall be always visible. 
If you have any thing to speak of, do not 
hesitate to come at night as well as during 
the day. I rarely go abroad ; and you will 
always find me at home, Rue Jacob. When 
not in my office at the Palais de Justice, I 
shall leave orders for your admittance when- 
ever you present yourself. ” 

The train entered the depot at this mo- 
ment. M. Daburon, having called a hack- 
ney coach, offered a place to Pere Tabaret. 
The old fellow declined. 

“ It is not worth while,” replied he ; “ for 
I live, as I have had the honor to tell you, 
Rue St. Lazare, two steps from this. ” 

“ Till to-morrow, then ! ” said M. Dabu- 
ron. 

“ Till to-morrow,” replied P&re Tabaret ; 
and he added, “We shall find him ! ” 


CHAPTER IH. 

PfeitE Tabaret’s dwelling was in truth, as 
he said, not four minutes’ walk from the rail- 
way terminus of St. Lazare. He was the 
owner of the property, — a fine house, care- 
fully kept, and which must have yielded a 
fine revenue, although the rents on the quar- 
ter were not extravagant. 

The house being much too large for the old 
fellow, he occupied only the ground floor, — 
a suite of handsome apartments, well ar- 
ranged and comfortably furnished, of which 
the principal ornament was his collection 
of books. He lived very simply from taste 
as well as habit, served by an old domestic, 
to whom on great occasions the portress lent 
a helping hand. 

Nothing in the house gave the slightest 
indication of the avocations of its propri- 
etor. Besides, even the humblest agent of 
police would be expected to possess a de- 


gree of acuteness for which no one gave 
M. Tabaret credit. Indeed, they mistook 
for incipient idiotcy his continual absence 
of mind. 

It is true that all who knew him remarked 
the singularity of his habits. His constant 
expeditions had given to his proceedings an 
appearance at once eccentric and myste- 
rious. Never was young libertine more ir- 
regular in his habits than this old man. 
He came or failed to come to his meals, ate 
it mattered not what or at what hour. He 
went out at every hour of the day and night, 
often slept abroad, and even disappeared 
for entire weeks at a time. Then he re- 
ceived the strangest visitors, — odd looking 
men of suspicious appearance, and fellows 
of ill-favored and sinister aspect. 

This irregular way of life had robbed the 
old fellow of some consideration. Many be- 
lieved they saw in him a shameless libertine, 
who dispensed his revenues in disreputable 
places of amusement. They exclaimed, 
“ Is it not a shame, a man of that age ? ” 

He was aware of these reports, and 
laughed at them. This did not, however, 
prevent many of his acquaintances from 
seeking his society and paying court to him. 
When invited to dinner, he almost invaria- 
bly refused. 

He saw but little of his tenants, with one 
exception, where he cultivated the greatest 
intimacy, so great indeed that he was 
almost as much at home in his neighbor’s 
apartments as his own. This exception 
was made in favor of a widow lady, who 
had for more than fifteen years occupied 
the third floor. She was called Madame 
Gerdy, and lived with her son Noel, whom 
she worshipped. 

Noel Gerdy was a man thirty-three years 
of age, and older in appearance, tall and 
well-made, with a noble and intelligent 
face, large black eyes, and black hair which 
curled naturally. An advocate, he passed 
for having great talent, and greater indus- 
try, and had already gained a certain 
amount of notoriety. An obstinate worker, 
cold and meditative, devoted to his profes- 
sion, he affected, with some ostentation, 
perhaps, a great rigidity of principle, and 
austerity of manners. 

In Madame Gerdy’s family, Pere Tabaret 
almost believed himself included. He 
looked upon himself as a parent, and upon 
Noel as a son. In spite of her fifty years, 
he had often thought of asking the hand 
of this charming widow, and was restrained 
less by the fear of a refusal than its conse- 
quences. To propose and be rejected 
would sever the existing relations, so pleas- 
urable to him. However, he had in his 


2U 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


will, which was deposited with his notary, 
constituted this young advocate his sole 
legatee ; with the sole condition of paying 
an annual prize of two thousand francs to 
the police agent who during the year had 
drawn to light the most obscure and myste- 
rious crime. 

Short as was the distance to his house, 
P&re Tabaret was a good quarter of an 
hour in reaching it. On leaving the judge 
his thoughts reverted to the scene of the 
murder ; and, so blinded was the old fellow 
to external objects, that the passers by were 
obliged to push him aside in order to pur- 
sue their way : thus his progress was a 
slow one. 

He repeated to himself for the fiftieth 
time the words of the Widow Lerouge, as 
reported by the milk-maid, “If I wished 
for any thing more, I could have it.” 

“ All is in that,” murmured he. “ The 
Widow Lerouge possessed some important 
secret, which persons rich and powerful 
had the strongest motives for concealing. 
This secret was her fortune ; by means of 
this she made her powerful friends sing to 
her tune. She has either threatened or 
wearied them, and they have silenced her 
forever 1 But of what nature was this se- 
cret, and how did she become possessed of 
it ? Might she not in her youth have been 
a servant in some great family, where she 
has seen, heard, or surprised something. 
What ? Evidently there is a woman at 
the bottom. May she not have assisted 
her mistress in some intrigue? What 
more probable ? And in that case the 
affair becomes complicated. Not only 
must the woman be found, but the lover ; 
for it is the lover who has moved in this 
affair. It must be, or I am deceived, a 
noble personage. A man of inferior rank 
would have paid the assassin. This man 
has not hung back ; he himself has struck, 
avoiding the mistake of an accomplice. 
He is a courageous man, full of audacity 
and coolness ; for the crime has been ad- 
mirably executed. 

“ The gallant left nothing behind of a 
nature to compromise him seriously ; but 
lor me, Gevrol would have seen in the 
assassination the work of a robber, and 
overlooked the real motive for the crime ! 
No,” continued the good man, “ it must be 
the issue of an amour. Time will show.” 

Pere Tabaret mounted the steps in front 
of his house. The portress, seated in her 
loge, and chatting with her husband, saw 
him through the window by the light of 
the lamp which hung over the door. 

“ Hold,” said the porter, “ here is the 
proprietor returned.” 


“ So it seems,” returned the portress. 
“ His princess does not want him this even- 
ing. He looks troubled about something.” 

“ It is positively indecent,” said the por- 
ter, “ for a man of his years to act in the 
manner he does. Oh ! he’s got softening 
of the brain. One of these fine mornings he 
will find his way to the insane asylum in 
a straight waistcoat. ” 

“ Look at him now ! ” interrupted the 
portress, — “ look at him now, in the open 
street ! ” 

The old fellow had stopped at the ex- 
tremity of the porch. He had taken off his 
hat, and, while talking to himself, gesticu- 
lated violently. 

“ No,” said he to himself, “ I have not 
yet laid hold of the clew ; but I am near it. 
I burn ; but I am not at the fire yet.” 

Admitted by the portress, he passed on 
to the door of his apartments, of which he 
rang the bell, forgetting that he had his 
pass-key in his pocket. His housekeeper 
came and opened it. 

“ Hey day, monsieur. Is it you, and at 
this hour ? ” 

“ Hey day, madame. And what of that ? ” 
demanded the old fellow. 

“ Do you know,” said the servant, “ that 
it is half-past eight o’clock ? I thought you 
were not coming back this evening Have 
you dined ? ” 

“ No, not yet.” 

“ Fortunately I have kept your dinner 
warm. You can sit down to table.” 

Pere Tabaret seated himself, and was 
helped to soup ; but, mounting his hobby- 
horse again, he forgot to eat, and remained 
arrested by an idea, his spoon in the air. 

“He is certainly touched in the head,” 
thought. Mannette. “ Look at that stupid 
air. Who would act in such a manner that 
was in his senses ? ” 

She struck him on the shoulder, bawling 
in his ear, as if he were deaf, — 

“You do not eat. Are you not hun- 
gry ? ” 

“ Yes, yes,” answered he, trying me- 
chanically to escape the voice that sounded 
in his ears, “ I am very hungry ; for since 
morning I have been obliged ” — 

He interrupted himself, remaining with 
his mouth open, his eyes fixed on vacancy. 

“ You have been obliged — ? ” repeated 
Mannette. 

“ Thunder 1 ” cried he, raising his 
clenched hands towards the ceiling, — 
“ thunder of heaven 1 I have it now.” 

His movement was so violent and s.ud- 
den that the housekeeper was alarmed, and 
retired to the further end of the room', near 
I the door. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


21 


“Yes,” continued he, “it is certain 
there is a child ! ” 

Mannette approached quickly. 

“ An infant ? ” she asked in astonish- 
ment. 

“ Ah, so,” cried he in a furious tone. 
“ What are you doing there ? Has your 
hardihood come to this that you pick up 
the words which escape me ? Do me the 
favor to retire to your kitchen, and stay 
there until I call you.” 

“ He is going crazy ! ” thought Mann- 
ette, as she disappeared very quickly. 

Pere Tabaret returned to the table. The 
soup was completely cold; but he swal- 
lowed it in large spoonfuls, without re- 
marking it. 

“ Stupid ! ” said he to himself. “ Why 
did I not think of it before ? Poor human- 
ity ! I am growing old ; and my toils are 
less sharp than they used to be. But it is 
clear as the day : the circumstances all 
point to that conclusion.” 

He rapped with his spoon upon the 
table : the servant reappeared. 

“ The roast,” demanded he, “ and leave 
me to myself.” 

“ Yes,” continued he, furiously carving 
a leg of Presale mutton, — “ yes, there was 
an infant; and here is the history. The 
Widow Lerouge, when a young woman, is in 
the service of a great lady, immensely rich. 
Her husband, a sailor, probably had de- 
parted on a long voyage. The lady had 
a lover — found herself enceinte. She 
confided in the Widow Lerouge, and, with 
her assistance, accomplished a clandestine 
accouchement .” 

He called again. 

“ Mannette, the desert, and get out ! ” 

Certainly such a master was unworthy 
of so excellent a cook as Mannette. He 
would have been puzzled to say what he 
had eaten for dinner, or even what he was 
eating at this moment ; it was a preserve of 
pears. 

“ But what,” murmured he, “ has become 
of the child ? Has it been destroyed ? No ; 
for the Widow Lerouge, an accomplice in 
an infanticide, would be no longer formid- 
able. The child has been preserved, and 
confided to the care of our widow, by whom 
it has been reared. They have been able 
to take the infant away from her, but not 
the proofs of its birth and its existence. 
Here is the opening. The father is the 
man of the fine carriage ; the mother is the 
lady who came with the handsome young 
man. Ha ! ha ! I can well believe the 
dear old dame wanted for nothing. She 
had a secret worth a farm in Brie. But 
the old lady was extravagant; her ex- 


penses and her demands have increased 
year by year. Poor humanity ! She has 
leaned upon the staff too heavily, and bro- 
ken it. She has threatened. They have 
been frightened, and said, ‘ Let there be an 
end of this ! ’ But who has charged him- 
self with the commission ? The papa ? 
No : he is too old. By jupiter 1 the son, — 
the child himself! He would save his 
mother, the brave boy ! He has slain the 
witness, and burnt the proofs ! ” 

Mannette all this time, her ear to the 
keyhole, listened with all her soul ; from 
time to time she gleaned a word, an oath, 
the noise of a blow upon the table ; but that 
was all. 

“ For certain,” thought she, “ his women 
are running in his head.” 

Her curiosity overcame her prudence. 
Hearing no more, she ventured to open the 
door a little way. The old fellow caught 
her in the very act. 

“ Monsieur wants his coffee ? ” stam- 
mered she timidly. 

“ Yes, you may bring it to me,” he an- 
swered. 

He attempted to swallow his coffee at a 
gulp, but scalded himself so severely that 
the pain brought him suddenly from specu- 
lation to reality. 

“ Thunder ! ” grumbled he ; “ but it is 
hot ! Devil take the case ! it has set me 
beside myself. They are right in the of- 
fice, when they say I take too strong an in- 
terest in the investigations* Who but I 
should have, by the sole exercise of obser- 
vation and reason, established the whole his- 
tory of the assassination ? Certainly not 
Gevrol, poor man ! He must, if he has any 
professional feeling, be deeply humiliated. 
Shall I seek M. Daburon ? No, not yet. I 
must sift to the bottom all the particulars, 
and arrange my ideas systematically be- 
fore meeting him again. Upon the other 
hand, if I sit here alone, this history will 
keep me in a fever of speculation. My 
faith ! I will call upon Madame Gerdy : 
she has been ailing for some days. I will 
have a chat with Noel, and that will 
brighten me up a little.” 

He got up from the table, and took his 
hat and cane. 

“ Monsieur is going out ? ” demanded 
Mannette. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Monsieur will not return until late ? ” 

“ Possibly.” 

“ But monsieur will return ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

One minute later Pere Tabaret rang at 
his friend Madame Gerdy’s apartments. 

Madame Gerdy lived in respectable 


22 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


style. She possessed a competence ; and I 
her son’s business, already large, had made 
it a fortune. She had few acquaintances, 
and, with the exception of one or two 
friends, occasionally invited to dinner, re- 
ceived no visitors. During the fifteen 
years that Pere Tabaret came familiarly 
to the house, he had encountered only the 
curate of the parish, an old professor, and 
Madame Gerdy’s brother, a colonel retired 
from service. 

When these three visitors called upon 
the same evening, an event somewhat rare, 
they played at “ Boston,” or made a party 
at piquet. Noel, however, seldom re- 
mained in the salon, but shut himself up 
after dinner in his study, and immersed 
himself in his law papers. He was sup- 
posed to work far into the night. Often in 
winter his lamp was not extinguished be- 
fore dawn. 

Mother and son absolutely lived for one 
another, as all who knew them took 
pleasure in repeating. 

They loved and honored Noel for the 
care he bestowed upon his mother, — for 
his more than filial devotion, — for the sac- 
rifices which all supposed he made in living 
at his age like an old man. 

The neighbors were in the habit of con- 
trasting the conduct of this exemplary 
young man with that of Pere Tabaret, the 
incorrigible old rake, the gallant in the 
peruke. 

As for Madame Gerdv, she saw nothing 
but her son in all the world. Her love had 
actually taken the form of worship. In 
Noel, she believed she saw united all the 
pl$ r sical and moral perfections. To her he 
seemed of a superior order to the rest of 
humanity. If he spoke, she listened and 
was silent : his word was a command, his 
advice a decree of Providence. To care 
for her son, study his tastes, anticipate his 
wishes, was the sole aim of her life. Noel 
was her existence. 

She was a mother. 

“ Is Madame Gerdy visible ? ” demanded 
Pere Tabaret of the young girl who 
opened the door ; and, without waiting for 
an answer, he walked into the room like a 
man assured that his presence cannot be 
inopportune, and ought to be agreeable. 

A single lamp gave light to the salon, 
which was not in its accustomed order. 
The marble-top table, usually in the 
middle of the room, was rolled into a cor- 
ner. Madame Gerdy’s large arm-chair 
was near the window : a newspaper, all 
crumpled, lay before it on the carpet. 

The old amateur took in the whole at a 
glance. 


“ Has any accident occurred ? ” demand- 
ed he of the young girl. 

“ Do not speak to me, monsieur : we have 
had such a fright ! oh, what a fright ! ” 

“ What was it ? speak quickly ! ” 

“ You know that madame has been ail- 
ing for more than a month. She Jhas eaten 
I may say almost nothing; this morning, 
even, she said to me ” — 

“ Well, well ! but this evening ? ” 

“ After dinner, madame came into the 
salon as usual. She sat down and took up 
one of M. Noel’s newspapers. Scarcely 
had she began to read, when she uttered a 
great cry, — oh, a terrible cry, monsieur ! 
We ran into the salon, and found madame 
where she had fallen upon the carpet as if 
dead. M. Noel raised her in his arms, and 
carried her into her chamber. I wanted 
to fetch a doctor ; but he said there was no 
need : he knew what was the matter with 
her.” 

“ And how is she now ? ” 

“ She has come to her senses ; that is to 
say ; I suppose so ; for M. Noel made me 
leave the room. All that I do know is, that 
she kept talking all the time, and talking 
very loudly too ; for I heard her say, — Ah, 
monsieur, but it is all so very strange ! ” 

“ What is strange ? ” 

“ What I heard Madame Gerdy say to 
M. Noel.” 

“ Ah ha 1 my belle ! ” sneered Pere 
Tabaret ; “ so you listen at key-holes, do 
you ? ” 

“No, monsieur! no indeed, I swear to 
you ; but madame cried out like one lost. 
She said,” — 

“ My girl,” said Pere Tabaret, “ one 
never hears any thing good through key- 
holes. Mannette can tell you as much.” 

The poor girl, thoroughly confused, 
sought to excuse herself. 

“ Enough, enough ! ” said the good man. 
“ Return to your work : you need not dis- 
turb M. Noel ; I can wait for him very 
well here.” 

And, satisfied with the reproof he had ad- 
ministered, he picked up the newspaper, 
and installed himself in the chimney-corner, 
placing the lamp so as to read with ease. 

A minute had scarcely elapsed when he 
in his turn bounded in his chair, and ut- 
tered a cry of instinctive terror and sur- 
prise. 

These were the first words that met his 
eye. 

“ A horrible crime has plunged in grief 
and consternation the little village of La 
Jonchere. A poor widow, named Lerouge, 
who enjoyed the general esteem and love 
of the community, has been assassinated 


THE WIDOW LE ROUGE. 


23 


in her own house. The officers of the law 
have made the usual preliminary investiga- 
tions ; and, from the information we have 
been able to gather, we believe justice is 
already on the track of the authors of this 
dastardly crime.” 

“ Thunder 1 ” cried Pere Tabaret to him- 
self, “ can it be that Madame Gerdy ? ” — 

The idea was but a gleam of lightning, 
dismissed as soon as formed : he fell 
back into the arm-chair, and, raising his 
shoulders, murmured, — 

“ This affair of Jonchere is driving me 
out of my senses ! I can think of nothing 
but this ’infernal Widow Lerouge. I see 
her now in every thing.” 

In the mean while, an uncontrollable curi- 
osity made him peruse the entire news- 
paper. He found nothing, with the excep- 
tion of these lines, to justify or explain even 
the slightest emotion. 

“ It is an extremely singular coincidence, 
at the same time,” thought the incorrigible 
police agent. Then, remarking that the 
newspaper was slightly torn at the lower 
part, and crushed, as if by a convulsive 
grasp, he repeated, — 

“ It is strange ! ” 

At this moment the door of Madame 
Gerdy’s room opened, and Noel appeared 
on the threshold. 

Without doubt the accident to his moth- 
er had greatly excited him ; for he was very 
pale : and his countenance, ordinarily so 
calm, wore an expression of profound sor- 
row. He appeared surprised to see Pere 
Tabaret. 

“ Ah, my dear Noel 1 ” cried the old fel- 
low. “ Calm my inquietude. How is your 
mother ? ” 

“ Madame Gerdy is as well as can be ex- 
pected.” 

“ Madame Gerdy ! ” repeated the old fel- 
low with an air of astonishment ; but he 
continued, “ It is plain you have been seri- 
ously alarmed.” 

“ In truth,” replied the advocate, seating 
himself, “ I have experienced a rude 
shock.” 

Noel was making visibly the greatest 
efforts to appear calm, to listen to the old 
fellow, and to answer him. Pere Tabaret, 
as much disquieted on his side, perceived 
nothing. 

“ At least, my dear boy,” said he, “ tell me 
how this happened ? ” 

The young man hesitated a moment, as 
if consulting with himself. No doubt he 
was unprepared for this point blank ques- 
tion, and knew not what answer to make ; 
at last he replied, — 

“ Madame Gerdy has suffered a severe 


shock in learning from a paragraph in this 
newspaper that a woman in whom she 
takes a strong interest has been assassina- 
ted.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried Pere Tabaret. 

The old fellow was in a fever of embar- 
rassment. He wanted to question Noel, but 
was restrained by the fear of revealing the 
secret of his association with the police. 
Indeed he had almost betrayed himself by 
the eagerness with which he exclaimed, — 

“ What ! your mother knew the Widow 
Lerouge ?*” 

By an effort he restrained himself, and 
with difficulty dissembled his satisfaction ; 
for he was delighted to find himself so un- 
expectedly on the trace of the antecedents 
of the victim of La Jonchere. 

“ She was,” continued Noel, “ the slave 
of Madame Gerdy, devoted to her body 
and soul ! She would have thrown herself 
into the fire at a sign from her hand.” 

“ Then you, my dear friend, you knew 
this honest woman ? ” 

“ I have not seen her for a long time,” 
replied Noel ; “ but I knew her welj ; I 
ought even to say I loved her tenderly. 
She was my nurse.” 

“ She, this woman ? ” stammered Pere 
Tabaret. 

This time he was thunderstruck. The 
Widow Lerouge Noel’s nurse ? He was 
playing with fortune. Providence had 
evidently chosen him for its instrument, 
and was leading him by the hand. He 
was about to obtain all the information, in 
one half-hour, which he had almost de- 
spaired of ever procuring. He remained 
seated before Noel stunned and speechless. 
At length he' remembered, that, unless he 
would compromise himself, he must break 
the silence. 

“ It is a great misfortune,” murmured he. 

“ For Madame Gerdy, I know nothing 
of that; but, for me, it is an overwhelming 
misfortune ! I am struck to the heart by 
the blow which has slain this poor woman. 
Her death, M. Tabaret, has annihilated 
my dreams of the future, and overthrown 
my most cherished hopes. I have to per- 
form a solemn duty, — to avenge myself 
for cruel outrages. Her death breaks the 
weapon in my hands, and reduces me to 
despair, to impotence. Alas ! I am indeed 
unfortunate.” 

“ You unfortunate ? ” cried Pere Taba- 
ret, singularly affected by the sadness of 
his dear Noel. “ In heaven’s name, what 
has happened to you ? ” 

“ I suffer,” murmured the advocate, “not 
only from injustice that can never be re- 
paired, but from dread of calumny that 


24 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


cannot be repudiated. I am defenceless. 
I shall be accused of inventing falsehood, 
of being an ambitious intriguer, having no 
regard for truth, no scruples of con- 
science.” 

Pere Tabaret was puzzled. What con- 
nection could possibly exist between Noel’s 
honor and the assassination at Jonchbre? 
His brain was in a whirl. A thousand 
troubled and confused ideas jostled one an- 
other in inextricable confusion. 

“ Come, come, Noel,” said he, “ collect 
yourself. Calumny threatens you ? Non- 
sense ! Have you not friends ? am I not 
here ? Have confidence in me. It will be 
strange, indeed, if between us two — ” 

The advocate started to his feet, in- 
flamed by a sudden resolution. 

“ Yes,” interrupted he, “ you shall know 
the secret that is stifling me. The role I 
have imposed upon myself irritates and 
confounds me. I have need of a friend to 
console, a counsellor to advise me ; for one 
is a bad judge of his own cause : and this 
crime has plunged me into an abyss of hesi- 
tation.” 

“ You know,” replied Pere Tabaret, “ that 
I regard you as a son. Command me, my 
dear Noel, as if I were indeed your father.” 

“ Know then,” commenced the advocate, 
— “ but no, not here : what I have to say 
must not be overheard. Let us go into my 
study.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

When Noel and Pere Tabaret were seat- 
ed face to face in the small apartment de- 
voted to Noel’s business, and the door had 
been carefully locked, the old fellow began 
to feel uneasy. 

“ If your mother should require any 
thing,” said he. 

“If Madame Gerdy rings,” replied the 
young man, “ the servant will attend to her 
./ants.” 

This indifference, this coldness, confound- 
ed Pere Tabaret, accustomed as he was 
to the interchange of affection between 
mother and son. 

“For heaven’s sake, Noel,” said he, 
‘ calm yourself. Do not allow yourself to 
be overcome by a feeling of irritation. You 
have, I see, some little pique against your 
mother, which will be forgotten to-morrow. 
Don’t speak of her in this icy tone ; but tell 
me what you mean by calling her Madame 
Gerdy?” 

“ What I mean ? ” replied the advocate 
in a hollow tone, — “ what I mean ? ” 


He quitted his arm-chair, took several 
strides across the floor of the little cham- 
ber, returned to his place near the old fel- 
low, and said, — 

“ Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is 
not my mother 1 ” 

This sentence fell like a blow of a heavy 
club on the head of the amateur r he was 
paralyzed. 

“ Oh ! ” said he, in the tone one assumes 
when rejecting an absurd proposition, “ do 
you dream of what you say, Noel ? Is it 
credible ? Is it probable ? ” 

“It is improbable,” replied Noel with 
peculiar emphasis : “ it is incredible, if you 
will ; but it is true. For thirty-three years, 
ever since my birth, this woman has played 
a most marvellous and unworthy comedy, 
to ennoble and enrich her son, — for she has 
a son, — and to despoil, to plunder me ! ” 

“ My friend,” — commenced Pere Taba- 
ret, who in the background of the picture 
presented by this singular revelation saw 
again the phantom of the murdered Widow 
Lerouge. 

But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly 
in a state to hear. The young man, usually 
so cold, so self-contained, could not control 
his anger. At the sound of his own voice, 
he became animated, as a good horse might 
at the jingling of his harness. 

* “ Was ever man,” continued he, “ more 
cruelly deceived, more miserably duped, 
than I have been, — I who have so loved 
this woman ? How I have sought for evi- 
dences of affection to lavish upon her, who 
was sacrificing me to her own selfish ambi- 
tion for her son 1 How she has laughed at 
me ! Her infamy dates from the moment 
when for the first time she took me on her 
knees ; and, until these few days past, she 
has sustained without faltering her execra- 
ble role : her love for me, hypocrisy ! her 
devotion falsehood ! her caresses lies. And 
how I have worshipped her ! Ah ! why 
can I not recall the innocent kisses of my 
childhood, the devotion of my youth, the 
sacrifices of my manhood, given in ex- 
change for her Judas’ kisses? And for 
what was all this heroism of deception, this 
caution, this duplicity? To betray me, 
more securely to despoil me; to rob me; 
to give to her illegitimate offspring all that 
lawfully appertained to me, — a noble name, 
a princely inheritance ! ” 

“ We are burning 1 ” thought Pere Taba- 
ret, who was fast relapsing into the collab- 
orateur of M. Gevrol ; then aloud he said, — 
“ This is terribly serious, my dear Noel. 
To credit what you have said, we must be- 
lieve Madame Gerdy possessed of an 
amount of audacity and ability rarely united 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


25 


in one individual. She must have be^n as- 
sisted, advised, compelled perhaps. Who 
have been her accomplices ? She could 
never have accomplished this herself ; her 
husband perhaps himself? ” 

“ Her husband ! ” interrupted Noel, with 
a bitter laugh. “ Ah ! you have believed 
her a widow. Pshaw! She never had a 
husband. Pbre Gerdy never had an exis- 
tence. I am illegitimate, my dear Tabaret, 
thrice base born, — Noel, son of a femme 
convert, and an unknown father ! ” 

“Ah ! ” cried the old fellow ; “ this then is 
the occasion of your marriage with Made- 
moiselle Levernois being delayed these four 
years ? ” 

“ Yes, my friend, that was the cause. And 
what misfortunes might have been averted 
by this marriage with a young girl whom I 
love ! Had I wedded her before making this 
abominable discovery, I should not have 
wasted all my affection on her that I have 
called my mother. When she told me I was 
not the son of this imaginary individual, 
this M. Gerdy, she wept, she accused her- 
self, she seemed ready to die of grief and 
shame ; and I, poor fool ! dry her tears, ex- 
cuse her to her own eyes, console her with 
my caresses ! No, she had no husband : 
such women have no husbands. She was 
the Count de Commarin’s mistress ; and, on 
the day when he quitted her, he threw to 
her three hundred thousand francs, the price 
of her degradation ! ” 

Noel would have continued to pour forth 
these furious denunciations ; but his volubil- 
ity was arrested by the old fellow. He 
felt he was coming to a history in all 
points similar to that which he had imag- 
ined; and his impatience to gratify his 
vanity, in discovering how .nearly he had 
divined the facts, made him almost forget 
to express any sympathy for his friend’s 
misfortunes. 

“ My dear boy,” said he, “ let us not 
digress. You ask me for advice ; and I am 
perhaps the best adviser you could have 
chosen. Come, then, to the point. How 
have you learned this ? Have you proofs 
of what you state ? where are they ? ” 

The decided tone of the old fellow would 
no doubt have awakened Noel’s attention 
at any other time ; but he was off his guard : 
he had not leisure to stop or to reflect. 
He answered promptly, — 

“I have known the truth for three 
weeks. I made the discovery by chance. I 
have important moral proofs ; but they are 
mere presumptive evidence. A word from 
the Widow Lerouge, one single word, would 
have rendered them decisive. This word 
she cannot pronounce, since they have 


killed her ; but she has said it to me. Of 
what avail ? Now, Madame Gerdy will deny 
all. I know her ; with her head on the 
block, she will deny it. My father doubt- 
less will turn against me. I am myself 
morally convinced. I was strong in evi- 
dence ; but this crime renders vain my 
certainty, utterly destroys my proofs ! ” 

“ Explain it all to me,” replied Pbre 
Tabaret after a pause, — “ all you under- 
stand. We, the old, are sometimes able to 
give good advice ; and I am willing to ad- 
vise you.” 

“ Three weeks ago,” commenced Noel, 
“ searching for some old documents, I 
opened Madame Gerdy’s secretary. Acci- 
dentally I overturned a drawer : some 
papers tumbled out, amongst which were a 
packet of letters, which fell right into my 
hand. A mechanical impulse, which I can- 
not explain, prompted me to untie the 
string, and read one of the letters.” 

“ You did wrong,” remarked Pfere Tab- 
aret. 

“ Be it so. I read. At the end of ten 
lines, I was convinced that this correspond- 
ence was my father’s, whose name, Madame 
Gerdy, in spite of my prayers, had always 
hidden from me. You can understand my 
emotion. I carried oft' the packet, shut 
myself up in this room, and devoured the 
letters from beginning to end.” 

“ And you have been cruelly punished, 
my poor boy ! ” 

“ It is true ; but who in my position could 
have resisted? These letters have given 
me pain ; but they afford the proof of 
what I have told you.” 

“ And you have preserved the letters ? ” 

“ I have them here ; and, that you may 
understand the case in which I have re- 
quested your advice, I am going to read 
them to you.” 

The advocate opened one of the draw- 
ers of his bureau, pressed an imperceptible 
spring, and a hidden receptacle appeared 
,in the back of the upper tablette, from 
which he drew out a bundle of letters. 

“ You understand, my friend,” said he, 
“ that I shall spare you all insignificant de- 
tails, which, however, have their own 
weight. I am only going to take up the 
important facts, which treat directly of the 
affair.” 

Pere Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, 
burning with the fever of curiosity, his 
face expressing the most ardent attention. 

After a selection, which he was some 
time in making, the advocate opened a 
letter, and commenced his reading in a 
voice which trembled, in spite of his efforts 
to render it calm. 


26 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“‘My Valerie, well beloved, — 

“ Valerie,” said he, “you understand is 
Madame Gerdy.” 

“I know, I know. Do not interrupt 
yourself.” 

Noel continued. 

“ ‘ My Valerie, well beloved. 

“ ‘ This is a happy day. This morning I 
received your welcome letter. I have 
covered it with kisses. I have read it a 
hundred times ; and now it has gone to 
join the others here upon my heart. This 
letter fills me with transport. You were 
not deceived. Heaven has blessed our 
loves ; and we shall have a son. 

“ ‘ I shall have a son, the living image of 
my adored Valerje ! Oh ! why are we 
parted at a time like this? Why have I 
not the wings of a bird, that I might fly to 
thee, beloved of my soul, and mingle our 
tears of joy and thankfulness ? Ah 1 never 
as at this moment have I cursed the fatal 
union imposed upon me by an inexorable 
family, whose .cruelty my prayers and tears 
could not soften. I cannot restrain myself 
from hating this woman who bears in spite 
of me my name, innocent victim though 
she is of the barbarity of our parents. 
And, to fill up the measure of sorrow, she 
is also soon to make me a father. What 
words can paint my sorrow when I com- 
pare the fortunes of these two children ? 

“ ‘ One, son of the object of my tender- 
est love, shall have neither father, family, 
nor name, since an inexorable law for- 
bids me to legitimatize him. While the 
other, the son of my detested spouse, by 
the sole fact of his birth shall be rich, 
honored, noble, surrounded by .devotion 
and homage, with a great position in the 
world. I cannot endure the thought of 
this terrible injustice! Who can imagine a 
way to repair it ? I cannot tell now ; but 
be sure I shall find a way. It is to him, the 
most desired, most cherished, most be- 
loved, that the best fortune should come ; 
and come to him it shall : I swear it.’ ” 

“From whence is that letter dated?” 
demanded Pere Tabaret. 

“ See,” replied Noel. 

He handed the letter to the old fellow, 
who read, — 

“ Venice, December, 1828.” 

“ You perceive,” said the advocate, “ all 
the importance of this first letter : it is a 
brief statement of the facts. My father, 
married in spite of himself, adores his 
mistress and detests his wife. Nor are his 
feelings towards the infants at all con- 
cealed. In fact, we can plainly perceive, 
peeping forth, the germ of the idea which 


afterwards he matured and carried into 
execution, in defiance of all law human or 
divine ! ” 

He was gradually falling into his pro- 
fessional manner, as if pleading the cause 
before the tribunals. Pere Tabaret again 
interrupted him. 

“ There is no explanation necessary ; the 
letter is explicit enough. I am not an 
adept in such matters as a grand juror ; 
but I understand admirably so far.” 

“ I pass several letters,” continued Noel, 
“ and I come to this one of Jan. 23, 
1829. It is very long, and filled with mat- 
ters altogether foreign to the subject which 
now interests us. However, I find therein 
two passages, which attest the slow but 
steady and determinate growth of the idea 
suggested in the first letter. 

“ ‘ The destinies, more powerful than my 
will, chain me here ; but my soul is ever 
near to thee, my adored Valerie ! Without 
ceasing, my thoughts rest upon the un- 
speakable happiness in store for us.’ 

“ I skip,” said Noel, “ several pages of pas- 
sionate rhapsody, to stop at these lines at 
the end. 

“ ‘ My aversion to the countess increases 
daily. Unfortunate woman ! I hate and 
at the same time pity her. She seems to 
divine the occasion of my sadness, my cold- 
ness. By her timid submission and unalter- 
able sweetness, she seems to seek pardon 
for her share in our unhappy union. Sacri- 
ficed creature ! She also may have given 
her heart to another, before being fettered 
to a husband who can never look upon her 
with a husband’s love. Your good heart 
will pardon me this pity.’ 

“ That countess was my mother,” cried 
the advocate in a trembling voice. “ And 
he demands pardon for the pity she in- 
spires ! Poor lady 1 ” 

He covered his eyes with his hand, as if 
forcing back his tears, and added in a low 
tone, — 

“ She is dead ! ” 

In spite of his impatience, Pere Tabaret 
dared not utter a word. He resented 
keenly the profound sorrow of his youthful 
and respected friend. After a silence, 
which almost maddened the old fellow, Noel 
raised his head, and returned to the letters. 

“ All the letters which follow,” said he, 

“ carry traces of the preoccupation of my 
father’s mind on the subject of his illegiti- 
mate son. I lay them, however, aside, and 
take up this written from Rome, March 

5, 1829 ” Jr 

“ ‘ My son, — our son, ; ,my most constant, 
my only care, — how to secure for him the 
position in the future of which I dream ? 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


The nobles of former days had not these 
vulgar obstacles to their wishes to contend 
with. In old time, a word from the kin" 
would have ennobled my son, and given him 
a place in the world. To-day, the kin" 
who governs with difficulty his disaffected 
subjects can do less than nothing. Nobility 
has lost its rights ; and the lords of France 
are as powerless to transgress the laws as 
the meanest of their vassals.’ 

“ Lower down I find, — 

“ ‘ My heart loves to picture to itself the 
form and features of our son. He will 
have the soul, the mind, the beauty, all the 
/ fascinations of his mother. He will inherit 
from his father the pride, the valor, the 
sentiments of his noble and ancient race. 
What will be the other ? I tremble to think 
of it.’ 

“The monster! that is I!” cried the 
advocate with intense rage. “ ‘ Whilst the 
other — ’ but let us leave this part of the 
subject, these preliminaries to an outra- 
geous action. I only desire by these to 
show the abberation of my father’s reason 
under the influence of his passion. We 
shall soon be at the end.” 

Pere Tabaret was astonished at the 
strength of this passion, long 'since burnt 
out, of which Noel was raking up the dead 
ashes. Perhaps he felt all the more keenly 
the force of those passionate expressions of 
devotion, because they reminded him of his 
own lost youth. He understood how irresis- 
tible must have been the force of such a 
love ; and he trembled to speculate as to the 
result. 

“ Here,” said Noel, “is another; not one 
of those interminable epistles from which 
I have read you fragments, but a simple 
billet. It is dated from Venice at the begin- 
ing of May ; it is short but decisive. 

“ ‘ Dear Valerie, — 

“ ‘ Thy response is more favorable than I 
dared to hope for. The project I have 
conceived is now practicable. I begin to 
feel the approach of ^calmness and sectfrity. 
Your son shall bear my name. I shall not 
be obliged to separate myself from him. 
He shall be reared near me, in my 
house, under my eyes, on my knees, in my 
arms. Shall I have strength to bear this 
excess of happiness ? 

“ * I set out to-morrow for Naples, from 
whence I shall write to you at length ; al- 
though, whatever may happen, though I 
should sacrifice the important interests con- 
fided to me, I shall be in Paris at the 
solemn hour. My presence will double 
your courage ; my love shall diminish thy 
sufferings.’ ” 


“ Pardon me for interrupting you Noel,” 
said Pere Tabaret, “do you know what 
grave affairs detained your father abroad ?” 

“ My father, my old friend,” replied the 
advocate, “ was, in spite of his youth, one 
of the friends, one of the confidants, of 
Charles X. ; and he had been charged by 
him with a secret mission to Italy? My 
father is the Count Rheteau de Commarin.” 

“ Whew ! ” exclaimed the old fellow ; and 
between his teeth, the better to engrave the 
name upon his memory, he repeated sev- 
eral times, “ Rheteau de Commarin.” 

Noel held his peace. Having controlled 
his resentment, he seemed buried in reflec- 
tion, as if seeking the means of executing 
his unalterable determination to repair 
the wrong he had sustained. 

“ In the middle of the month of May,” 
continued he, “ my father writes again, this 
time from Naples. Does it not appear in- 
credible that a man of prudence, sense, a 
dignified diplomatist, a gentleman, should 
dare, even in the eagerness of insensate 
passion, to confide to paper this most mon- 
strous project ? Listen ! 

“ ‘My Adored, — 

“ ‘ Germain, my faithful valet de chambre , 
will hand you this letter. I have de- 
spatched him to Normandy, charged with a 
commission of the most delicate nature. 
He is one of those servitors who may be 
trusted implicitly. 

“ ‘ The time has come when you must 
learn the nature of my project touching our 
son. In three weeks, at the latest, I shall 
be in Paris. 

“ ‘ Here is what I have resolved. 

“ ‘ The two infants will be entrusted to two 
nurses of Normandy, where my estates are 
situated. One of these women, selected 
and instructed by Germain, will be in our 
interests ; to her charge, my Valerie, our 
child is to be confided. These two women 
shall leave Paris the same day, Germain 
accompanying her who has the son of the 
countess. 

“ ‘ An accident, arranged in advance, will 
compel these two women to pass one night 
on the road. Another chance, brought 
about by Germain, will force them to sleep 
in the same inn, — in the same chamber ! 

“ ‘ During the night, the nurse entrusted 
with your child will change the infants in 
their cradles. 

“ ‘ I have foreseen and arranged every 
thing, even as I now explain it' to you. 
Every precaution has been taken to prevent 
our secret from escaping. Germain is 
charged to procure, while in Paris, a cradle 
and clothing for your infant precisely simi- 


28 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


lar to that of the countess’s. Assist him 
with your advice. 

“‘Your maternal heart, sweet Valerie, 
may bleed at thought of being deprived of 
your infant. Console yourself for the loss 
of his innocent caresses, by' dreaming of 
the station secured to him by your sacrifice. 
What excess of maternal tenderness can 
serve him as powerfully as this separation ? 
As to the other, I know your tenderness of 
heart. You will love him for his father’s 
sake ; and the affection you bestow on him 
will prove your devotion to me. And he 
will have nothing to complain of. Knowing 
nothing, he shall have nothing to regret ; 
and all that money and influence can 
secure, in his position, he shall have. 

“ ‘ Do not argue with me that this attempt 
is criminal. No, my well beloved, no. The 
success of our plan depends upon so many 
coincidences, independent of our will, that, 
should they unite, we may assure ourselves 
the hand of Providence favors our design. 
If success crowns our wishes, it will be 
because heaven has decreed it. 

“ * I have hope 1 * ” 

“Just what I thought,” murmured Pere 
Tabaret. 

“ And the wretched man,” cried Noel, 
“ dares to invoke the aid of Providence ! 
He would make heaven his accomplice ! ” 

“ But your mother,” demanded the old 
fellow, — “ pardon, I would say Madame 
Gerdy, — how did she receive this proposi- 
tion ? ” 

“ She would appear to have rejected it, 
at first, for here are twenty pages of elo- 
quent persuasion from the count, urging 
her to agree to it. Oh, this woman ! ” 

“ My son,” said Pere Tabaret, softly, 
“ let us not be unjust. Why direct all your 
resentment against Madame Gerdy V To 
me, the count seems far more deserving of 
your anger.” 

“ True,” interrupted Noel, with a certain 
degree of violence, — “ true, the count is 
culpable. He is the author of an infamous 
conspiracy ; yet I am not inspired by a 
sense of hatred against him. He has com- 
mitted a crime, but has passion to excuse 
it. Moreover, he has not deceived me 
every hour of my life, by enacting a lie’, 
as this miserable woman has, for thirty 
years. And, more than all, his punish- 
ment has been so cruel, that I can even 
now pardon the injury he has done me, and 
weep for the suffering it has entailed.” 

“ Ah 1 he has been punished?” interro- 
gated the old fellow. 

“ Yes, fearfully ; how, you shall learn. 
But allow me to continue. Towards the 


end of May, or, more probably, during the 
first days of June, the count must have 
arrived in Paris; for the correspondence 
ceases. It would seem, that, after his meet- 
ing with Madame Gerdy, the final arrange- 
ments of the conspiracy were delayed by 
some obstacle. Here is a billet, relieving all 
uncertainty on the subject. On the day it. 
was written, the count was on service at the 
Tuileries, and unable to leave his post. 
He has written it even in the king’s cabi- 
net, on the king’s paper ; see the royal 
arms 1 The bargain has been concluded : 
the woman who has consented to beconhe 
the instrument of his project is in Paris, of 
which he acquaints his mistress. 

“ ‘ Dear Valerie, — 

“ ‘ Germain announces to me the arrival 
of your son’s nurse, — your son, our son. 
She will present herself at your house dur- 
ing the day. She is to be depended upon. 
A magnificent recompense is the price of 
her discretion. She has been given to 
understand that you are ignorant of the 
proposed exchange of children ; therefore 
say nothing to her that may undeceive her 
on that point. I wish to charge myself 
with the sole responsibility of the deed. 
It is the most prudent course. This woman 
is of Normandy. She was born on our 
lands and in some sort in our house. Her 
husband is an honest mariner. Her name 
is Claudine Lerouge. 

“ ‘ Be of good courage, my love 1 I am 
exacting from you the greatest sacrifice 
that can be made by woman ; and I appre- 
ciate the devotion that foregoes a mother’s 
happiness for thy lover’s sake. There is 
no longer a doubt that heaven is protect- 
ing us. All smiles. Hereafter every thing 
depends upon our address, our prudence. 

I feel that we shall succeed 1 ’ ” 

On one point, at least, P&re Tabaret was 
sufficiently enlightened. The researches 
into the past life of the Widow Lerouge 
were* anticipated. He could not restrain 
an exclamation, “ At last ! ” of satisfaction, 
which fortunately escaped Noel. 

“ This note,” said the advocate, “ closes 
the Count de Commarin’s correspondence.” 

“ What 1 ” exclaimed the old fellow, “ you 
are in possession of nothing more ? ” 

“ I have yet ten lines, written many 
years later, which certainly have some 
weight, but after all offer only moral proof.” - 

“ What a misfortune 1 ” murmured Pere 
Tabaret. Noel replaced on his bureau the 
letters which were in his hand, and, turn- 
ing towards his old friend, looked at him 
steadily. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


29 


Suppose,” said he slowly, and empha- 
sizing every syllable, — “ suppose that all my 
sources of information end here. Admit, 
for a moment, that I know nothing more 
than you do now. What is your advice ? ” 

Phre Tabaret paused some minutes before 
.answering ; he was weighing the probabili- 
ties resulting from the count’s letters. 

“For my own part,” said he at length, 
“I believe on my soul you are not the 
. son of Madame Gerdy.” 

“ And you believe rightly ! ” answered 
the advocate forcibly. “ You think, do 
you not, that, after reading these letters, I 
ought to have seen and questioned Clau- 
dine? You will say this poor woman 
who nursed me must have loved me ; that 
she must have suffered some remorse for 
her part in the horrible injustice of which 
I was the victim ? Well, I have seen her. 
I have questioned her ; and she has con- 
fessed all. She was only too glad to do 
so. The thought of her complicity tor- 
mented her. It was a weight of guilt too 
heavy for her age to bear ; and she told me 
all. The count’s scheme, simply and yet 
ingeniously conceived, succeeded without 
any effort ; and I, poor helpless infant ! 
when but three days old, was thus betrayed, 
despoiled, and disinherited by my unnatu- 
,ral father and his unworthy mistress. 
Poor Claudine ! remorse was dragging her 
to the grave ; and she promised me, with 
eagerness, her testimony on the day I 
should reclaim my rights.” 

“ And she is gone, carrying her secret 
with her,” murmured the old fellow in a 
■ tone of regret. 

“I have yet,” said Noel, “one hope. 
Claudine had in her possession several 
letters, written subsequently, — some by the 
Count, some by Madame Gerdy, — letters 
at once imprudent and explicit. They 
can be, without question, recovered ; and 
their evidence will be decisive. I have 
had them in my hands : I have read them. 
Claudine would have given them to me; 
but, fool that I was, I did not take them.” 

The little hope that existed in that 
quarter no one knew better than Pbre 
Tabaret. To gain possession of those 
very letters, the crime at Jonch&re had 
been committed. The assassin had found 
and burned them, with the other papers, 
in the little stove. The old amateur was 
master of the situation. 

“ Knowing your affairs, my dear boy, 
almost as thoroughly as my own,” said the 
old fellow after another pause, “ I am sur- 
prised the count should have forgotten the 
promises he makes in his letters to Madame 
. Gerdy, of promoting your fortune.” 


“ He seems never to have remembered 
them, my old friend.” 

“ That,” cried the old fellow indig- 
nantly, “ is even more infamous than all 
the rest ! ” 

“ Do not accuse my father,” answered 
Noel gravely; “his liaison with Madame 
Gerdy ceased long ago. I have a faint 
recollection of a distinguished looking man 
who came to see me at school. I am now 
persuaded it was the count. But the 
rupture came.” 

“ Naturally,” said Pere Tabaret. “ A fine 
gentleman 1 ” 

“ Suspend your judgment,” interrupted 
the advocate. “ M. de Commarin had 
good reason ; his mistress deceived him. 
He discovered her perfidy, and cast her off 
with just indignation. The ten lines of 
which I have spoken were written then.” 

Noel searched a considerable time 
among the papers scattered upon the table, 
and at length selected a letter more faded 
and creased than the others. Judging 
from its appearance of having been often 
folded and unfolded, it had been read over 
and over many times ; the writing was 
almost effaced in many places. 

“ In this,” said he in a bitter tone, 
“ Madame Gerdy is no longer ‘ adored 
Valerie.’ ” 

“ ‘ A cruel friend has, like a true friend, 
opened my eyes. I doubted him, believ- 
ing in you : but you have been watched ; 
and to-day, unhappily, I can doubt no more. 
You, Valerie, — you to whom I have given 
more than my life, — you have deceived me, 
and have been deceiving me long. Unhap- 
py man that I am, I can no longer be cer- 
tain that I am the father of your child.’ ” 

“ But this letter is a proof,” cried Pere 
Tabaret, — “a proof that cannot be over- 
come. Of what importance to the count 
would be a doubt of his paternity, had he 
not sacrificed his legitimate to his natural 
son V Yes, you have said truly, my dear 
Noel, his chastisement has been severe.” 

“ Madame Gerdy,” continued Noel, 
“ attempted to justify herself. She wrote 
to the count ; but he returned her letters 
unopened. She tried to see him, but in 
vain : he would not grant her an inter- 
view. She knew that all was over when 
the count’s steward brought her a legal set- 
tlement of fifteen thousand francs a year. 
Her son had taken my place ; and his 
mother had ruined me ! ” 

A light knock at the door of the study 
interrupted their conversation. 

“ Who is there ? ” demanded Noel with- 
out stirring. 

“ Monsieur,” answered the servant from 


30 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


outside the door, “ madarae wishes to speak 
to you.” 

The advocate appeared to hesitate. 

“ Go, my son,” advised Pere Tabaret ; 
“ do not be merciless.” 

Noel arose with visible reluctance, and 
passed into Madame Gerdy’s sleeping 
apartment. 

“ Poor boy ! ” thought Pere Tabaret 
when left alone. “ What a fatal discovery ! 
and how he must feel it. Noble young 
man ! Brave, honest heart ! In his inno- 
cent simplicity, he sees not from whence 
the blow has fallen. By good fortune, I 
am not so blind. I can see for him ; and, 
when he despairs of justice, I am confident 
of obtaining it. Thanks to his information, 
I can see it all now. An infant’s intelli- 
gence might now divine whose hand struck 
the blow that silenced the important wit- 
ness. How singular that he should assist 
the discovery of this crime without know- 
ing it ! How shall I proceed ? Ah ! if I 
could have one of those letters for four and 
twenty hours. He probably has counted 
them. I dare not ask for one ; I would 
be compelled to acknowledge my connec- 
tion with the police. Better run the risk, 
and take one, no matter which, that I may 
verify the writing.” 

Pere Tabaret had hardly thrust one of 
the letters into the depths of one of his 
capacious pockets, when the advocate re- 
turned. 

He was one of those men of strongly 
formed character whose self-control never 
deserts them. He was long accustomed to 
dissimulation, that indispensable armor of 
the ambitious. 

Nothing in his manner betrayed what 
had taken place between Madame Gerdy 
and himself. He was absolutely as calm 
as, when seated in his arm-chair, he lis- 
tened to the interminable nothings of his 
clients. 

“ Well,” demanded Pere Tabaret, “ how 
is she now ? ” 

“ Worse,” answered Noel : “ she is deliri- 
ous. She just now assailed me with the 
most injurious accusations, upbraiding me 
as the vilest of mankind. I am persuaded 
she is out of her senses.” 

“ Or losing them,” murmured Pere, Tab- 
aret ; “ and I think you ought to call in a 
physician.” 

“ I am going in search of one,” answered 
Noel. 

The advocate resumed his seat before 
his bureau, and re-arranged, according to 
their dates, the scattered letters. He seemed 
to have forgotten that he was wanting ad- 
vice from his old friend ; nor did he appear 


desirous of renewing the conversation 
This was the farthest in the world from 
Pere Tabaret’s intention. 

“ The more I ponder over your history, 
my dear Noel,” commenced he, “the more 
I am bewildered. I do not know what 
resolution I should adopt, were I in your 
situation.” 

“ Yes, my old friend,” answered the ad- 
vocate, “ it is a situation that might well 
perplex more profound experiences than 
yours.” 

The amateur repressed with difficulty 
the smile, which for an instant appeared 
upon his lips. 

“ I confess it humbly,” said he, taking 
pleasure in assuming an air of innocence. 
“ But have you done any thing yet ? 
Your first move should have been to de- 
mand an explanation of Madame Ger- 
dy.” 

Noel made a startled movement, which 
was unnoticed by Pere Tabaret, pre-occu- 
pied as he was in trying to give the turn 
he desired to the conversation. 

“It was by that,” answered Noel,” I 
began.” 

“ Well, what did she say? ” 

“ What could she say ? Was she not 
overwhelmed by the discovery ? ” 

“ What 1 did she not attempt to excul- 
pate herself? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” sneered Noel, “ she at- 
tempted ; she is accustomed to attempt 
the impossible, of course. She pretended 
to explain the correspondence. She told 
me, I know not how many absurd false- 
hoods.” 

The advocate finished gathering up his 
letters, without seeming to perceive the ab- 
straction, tied them carefully, and replaced 
them in the secret drawer. 

“ Yes,” continued he, rising and shutting 
up his bureau, as if trying by the movement 
to calm his anger, — “ yes, she attempted 
to make me believe the exchange had never 
taken place, — no easy matter, considering 
the proofs I hold. This is the occasion of 
her sickness. The idea that her son, 
whom she adores, should be obliged to re- 
store to me the name and fortune of which 
he robbed me broke her heart. She 
could see me suffer the most cruel priva- 
tions ; but she could not bear the thought of 
her son’s displacement. Rather than I 
should hurt a hair of his head, she would 
consign me to the bottomless pit.” 

“ She has probably acquainted the count 
with your discovery,” said Pere Tabaret, 
pursuing his idea. 

“ Hardly ; for the count has been absent 
from Paris more than a month, and is not 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


31 


expected to return until the end of the 
week.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ I called at the house, as I wished to 
see and speak with him.” 

“ You? ” 

“Yes. Do you think I shall not re- 
claim my own ? Do you imagine that I 
am the man to be robbed, spoiled, and be- 
trayed with impunity ? No, I have rights ; 
and I shall make them good. What con- 
sideration with-holds me from lifting up my 
voice and proclaiming my wrongs ? I shall 
claim my rights. Do you think that sur- 
prising ? ” 

“ No, certainly, my friend ; then you 
have visited M. de Commarin’s house ? ” 

“ Oh ! I did not adopt this resolution im- 
mediately,” continued Noel. “ My discov- 
ery made me at first almost lose my senses. 
A thousand opposing sentiments agitated 
me. At one moment, my fury blinded me ; 
the next, my courage deserted me. I would, 
and I would not. I was undecided, uncer- 
tain, wild. The eclat that must be occasioned 
by the publicity of such an affair terrified 
me. I longed to recover, — I will recover 
my name ; but I would at the same time 
preserve that noble name from stain. I 
would, if possible, find a means of concilia- 
ting all parties concerned, without public- 
ity and without scandal.” 

“You decided ? ” 

“ Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, — 
fifteen days of torture, of anguish ! Ah ! 
what I suffered in that time ! I neglected 
my business, being unable to fix my mind 
upon any kind of work. During the day, I 
tried by incessant action to fatigue my 
body, that at night I might find forgetful- 
ness in sleep. Vain hope : since I found 
those ill-omened letters, I have not slept an 
hour.” 

From time to time, Pere Tabaret silently 
consulted his watch. 

“ M. Daburon will be asleep,” thought 
he. 

“ One morning,” continued Noel, “after 
a night of rage, I determined to end all un- 
certainty. I was in that desperate state of 
mind, in which the gambler, after successive 
losses, throws upon the board his last re- 
maining coin. I called a carriage, and, 
with a beating heart, gave the order, ‘ To 
the Hotel de Commarin, Faubourg St. Ger- 
main.’ ” 

The old amateur allowed a sigh of im- 
patience to escape him. 

“ It is one of the most magnificent houses 
in Paris,” continued Noel, — “a princely 
dwelling, worthy the representation of an 
illustrious family, — almost a palace. Right 


and left of the vast courtyard are the sta- 
bles, where twenty horses of price are 
standing in reserve for common use. At 
the back rises the grand facade of the main 
building, majestic and severe, with its 
sculptured pediment, its noble portice, and 
its double flight of marble steps. Behind 
the house extends a large garden, or rather 
a park, shaded by the oldest trees, perhaps, 
in Paris.” 

This enthusiastic description sorely test- 
ed Pere Tabaret’s patience ; but he did not 
venture to interrupt Noel by a question. 
An indiscrete word might betray him, and 
reveal his relation with the bureau of in- 
vestigation. 

“ Standing before the dwelling of my an- 
cestors,” continued Noel, “ you cannot com- 
prehend the excess of my emotion. Here, 
said I, is the house in which I was born. 
This is the home in which I should have 
been reared ; and, above all, this is the spot 
where I should reign to-day, whereon I 
stand an outcast and a stranger, devoured 
by the sad and bitter memories, of which 
banished men have died. I compared my 
brother’s brilliant destinies with my sad 
and laborious career ; and my indignation 
well nigh overmastered reason. The mad 
impulse stirred me to force the doors, to 
rush into the grand salon, and drive out 
the intruder, — the son of Madame Gerdy, 
— who has taken the place of the son of the 
Countess de Commarin ! Out, usurper, 
out of this. I am the master here. The 
propriety of legal means at once recurred 
to my distracted mind, however, and re- 
strained me. Once more I stood before the 
habitation of my fathers. How I love its 
old sculptures, its grand old trees, its 
shaded walks, worn by the feet of my poor 
mother ! I love all, even to the proud es- 
cutcheon, frowning above the principal 
doorway, flinging its defiance to the theo- 
ries of this age of levellers.” 

This last phrase conflicted so directly 
with the code of opinions habitual to Noel, 
that Pere Tabaret was obliged to turn aside, 
to conceal his amusement. 

“ Poor humanity ! ” thought he ; “ he is 
already the grand seigneur.” 

“ On presenting myself,” continued the 
advocate, “I demanded to see the Count 
de Commarin. A Swiss porter, in grand 
livery, answered, the count was travel- 
ing, but that the viscount was at home. 
This ran counter to my designs ; but I was 
embarked ; so I insisted on speaking to the 
son in default of the father. The Swiss 
porter stared at me with astonishment. He 
had evidently seen me alight from a hired 
carriage, and so deliberated for some mo- 


32 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


ments as to whether I was not too insigni- 
ficant a person to have the honor of being 
admitted to visit the viscount.” 

“ But tell me, have you seen him ? ” 
asked Pere Tabaret, unable to restrain his 
impatience. 

“ Of course, immediately,” replied the 
advocate in a tone of bitter raillery. 
“ Could the examination, think you, result 
otherwise than in my favor? No. My 
white cravat and black costume produced 
their natural effect. The Swiss porter 
entrusted me to the guidance of a chasseur 
with a plumed hat, who, leading me 
across the court to a superb vestibule, 
transferred me to the care of a lackey ; who, 
in company with five or six others, was lol- 
ling upon a bench. This fine gentleman 
led me up a spacious staircase, wide enough 
for a carriage to ascend, and preceded me 
along an extensive picture gallery, guided 
me across a vast apartment, of which the 
furniture was shrouded in sombre coverings, 
and finally delivered me into the hands of 
the valet de chambre of Albert de Com- 
marin ; that is to say, the man who bears my 
name.” 

I understand, I understand.” 

“ I had passed an inspection ; now I had 
to undergo an examination. M. Albert’s 
valet desired to be informed who I was, 
whence I came, and what I wanted, what 
was my profession, and all the rest. I an- 
swered simply, that I was unknown to the 
viscount ; but it was absolutely necessary I 
should converse with him for five minutes 
upon an affair of the most urgent nature. 

I waited more than a quarter of an hour, 
when he reappeared. His master had gra- 
ciously deigned to receive me.” 

It was easy to perceive that his reception 
rankled in the advocate’s breast. He could 
not forgive Albert his lackeys and his 
valet de cliambre. He forgot the words of 
the illustrious duke, who said, “ I pay my 
valets for being insolent, to save myself the 
trouble.” Pere Tabaret was a little surpri- 
zed at his young friend’s bitterness, in 
speaking of these trivial details. 

“ Can it be true,” thought he, “ that the 
arrogance of lackeys is the secret of the 
people’s hatred of the aristocracy V ” 

“ I was ushered into a small salon,” 
continued Noel, “ simply furnished, the 
only ornaments of which were weapons. 
These, ranged against the walls, were of all 
times and countries. Never have I seen in 
so small a space so many muskets, arque- 
busses, pistols, swords, sabres, and foils : one 
might have imagined himself in the arsenal 
of a maitre de armes” 

The weapon used by the Widow 


Lerouge’s assassin naturally recurred to the 
old fellow’s memory. 

“ The viscount,” continued Noel, speak- 
ing slowly, “ was half lying on the divan 
when I entered. He was dressed in a 
jacket and pantaloons of velvet, and had 
around his neck an immense scarf of white 
silk. I do not cherish resentment against 
this young man. He has never to his knowl- 
edge injured me. He had no share in his 
parent’s crime. I am therefore able to speak 
of him with justice. He is handsome, has 
a noble air, and carries gracefully the name 
which does not belong to him. He is about 
my height, of the same brown complexion, 
and would resemble me, perhaps, if he did 
not wear a beard. Yet he appears at 
least five years younger ; but this is readily 
explained, he has neither worked nor suf- 
fered. He is one of the fortunate ones of 
the earth, who traverse life’s road on such 
soft cushions that they are never injured 
by the jolting of the carriage. On seeing 
me, he arose and saluted me graciously.” 

“ You must have been dreadfully ex- 
cited.” 

“ Less than I am at this moment : re- 
member, I was fifteen days preparing for 
this interview ; and fifteen days of mental 
torture exhausts one’s emotions. I an- 
swered the question I saw upon [his lips. 

‘ Monsieur,’ said I, ‘ you do not know me ; 
but that is of little consequence. I come 
to you, charged with a very grave, a very 
sad mission, which not only interests you, 
but touches the honor of the name you 
bear.’ Without doubt he did not believe 
me ; for, in a tone of the coolest imperti- 
nence, he asked me, ‘ Shall you be long ? ’ 

I answered as coolly, ‘ Yes.’ ” 

“ Pray,” said Pere Tabaret, becoming 
very attentive, “ do not omit a single de- 
tail ; it may be very important, you under- 
stand.”. 

“ The viscount,” continued Noel, “ ap- 
peared much disquieted. At length he said 
courteously, ‘My time is hardly at my 
own disposal this morning. I am at this 
hour engaged to call upon my fiancee, Made- 
moiselle d’Arlanges. Can we not postpone 
this conversation ? ’ ” 

“ Good 1 another woman,” said the old 
fellow to himself. 

“ I answered the viscount, that an ex- 
planation would admit of no delay ; and, as 
I saw him prepare to dismiss me, I drew 
from my pocket the count’s correspond- 
ence, and presented to him one of the let- 
ters. On recognizing his father’s hand- 
writing, he became more tractable, declared 
himself at my service, and demanded per- 
mission to write a word of apology to the 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


S3 


lady by whom he was expected. Having 
written the note hastily, he handed it to 
his valet, and ordered him to send it to Ma- 
demoiselle d’Arlanges immediately; then, 
opening the door of the adjoining apart- 
ment, his library, he requested me to enter.” 

“ One word,” interrupted the old fellow ; 
“ was he troubled on seeing the letters ? ” 

“ Not the least in the world. After clos- 
ing the door, he handed me a chair, and, 
seating himself, said, ‘ Now, monsieur, ex- 
plain yourself.’ I was fully prepared for 
the situation, and decided to strike a grand 
coup." 

• “ ‘ Monsieur,’ said I, ‘ my mission is pain- 
ful. The facts I am about to reveal to you 
are incredible. I beseech you, do not in- 
terrupt me, and do not answer me until 
you have read the letters I am about to 
show you.’ He regarded me with an air 
of extreme surprise, and answered, ‘ Speak I 
I can hear all.’ I stood up. ‘ Monsieur,’ 
said I, ‘ I must inform you that you are 
not the legitimate son of M. de Commarin, 
as this correspondence will prove to you. 
The legitimate son exists ; and he it is who 
sends me.’ I kept my eyes on his while 
speaking ; and I saw there a passing gleam 
of fury : for a moment I expected he was 
about to spring at my throat. He spoke 
quickly. ‘ The letters,’ said he in a short 
tone. I handed them to him.” 

“ How,” cried Pere Tabaret, “ these let- 
ters, — the true ones ? How imprudent ! ” 

“ And why ? ” 

“ If he had — I don’t know ; but — ” the 
old fellow hesitated. The advocate leaned 
his powerful hand upon the old man’s 
shoulder. 

“ I was there,” said he in a hollow tone ; 
“ and I promise you the letters were in no 
danger.” 

Noel’s features assumed such a sudden 
expression of ferocity that the old fellow 
was terrified, and recoiled instinctively. 

“He would have killed him,” thought 
he. 

The advocate resumed. 

“ That which I have done for you this 
evening, my friend, I did for the viscount. 
I obviated, at least for the moment, the ne- 
cessity of reading all of these hundred and 
fifty-six letters, by directing his attention 
to those marked with a cross, and to the 
passages of most especial importance, indi- 
cated with a red pencil.” 

“ It was an abridgment of his penance,” 
said Pere Tabaret. 

“ He was seated,” continued Noel, “ be- 
fore a little table, too fragile even to lean 
upon. I was resting against the mantel- 
piece. I followed his slightest movements ; 

3 


and I scanned his features closely. Never 
in my life have I seen so sad a spectacle. 
I shall never forget it, were I to live a 
thousand years. In less than five minutes 
his face changed to a degree that his own 
valet would not have recognized him. He 
held his handkerchief in his hand, with 
which from time to time mechanically he 
wiped his lips ; and, as he read, the lips be- 
came as white as the handkerchief. Large 
drops of sweat stood upon his forehead ; 
and his eyes became dull and clouded, as 
if a film had covered them : but not an ex- 
clamation, not a sigh, not a groan, escaped 
him, not even a gesture. At one moment, 
I felt such pity for him that I was almost 
on the point of snatching the letters from 
his hands, throwing them into the fire, and 
taking him in my arms, crying, ‘ No, you 
are my brother ! Forget all ; let us rematin 
each one in his place 1 Let us love one an- 
other.’ ” 

Pere Tabaret took Noel’s hand, ' and 
pressed it. 

“ Ah ! ” cried he, “ I recognize my gen- 
erous boy.” 

“ If I have not done this, my friend, it is 
because I said to myself, ‘ These letters 
burned, would he recognize me as his 
brother ? ’ ” 

“ Ay ! ” sighed Pere Tabaret, “ it is 
true.” 

“ In about half an hour, he had finished 
reading : he arose, and facing me directly, 
said, 1 You are right, monsieur. If these let- 
ters are really written by my father, as I 
believe them to be, they distinctly prove 
that I am not the son of the Countess de 
Commarin.’ I did not answer. ‘ Mean- 
while,’ continued he, ‘ these are only pre- 
sumptions. Are you possessed of other 
proofs ? ’ I expected, of course, a great 
many other objections. ‘ Germain,’ said 
I, ‘ can speak.’ He told me that Germain 
had been dead for several years. Then I 
spoke of the nurse, the Widow Lerouge. 
I explained how easily she could be found 
and questioned, adding that she lived at la 
Jonchere.” 

“ And what said he, Noel, to this ? ” de- 
manded Pere Tabaret anxiously. 

“ He preserved a moment’s silence, and 
appeared to reflect. All on a sudden he 
struck his forehead, and said, ‘ I remember ; 
I know her. I have accompanied my father 
to her house three times, and have seen him 
give her considerable sums of money.’ ” 

“ I remarked to him that this was yet an- 
other proof. He made no answer, but went 
out as if to look for something in the ad- 
joining room. He returned after some min- 
utes, — 


34 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ ‘ Monsieur, said he, can I meet the legiti- 
mate son of the count, my father? ’ 1 ans- 
wered, ‘ You see him before you, monsieur ! ’ 
He bowed his head, and murmured, ‘ I knew 
it was he. ’ He took my hand, and added, 
‘Brother, I bear you no grudge for the 
step you have taken. All I ask of you is, 
to wait eight or ten days, when my father 
will return. I will explain every thing to 
him ; and I promise you tligt justice shall be 
done. I, on my side, lose every thing, — 
name, position, fortune, and, worse than all, 

I shall probably lose my plighted bride, 
Mademoiselle d’Arlanges, who is dearer to 
me than life itself. In exchange, it is true I 
shall find a mother. I will labor to console 
her for your loss, monsieur, and win her love 
by tenderness and devotion. * ” 

“ Did he really say that ? ” 

“ Almost word for word.” 

“ Hypocrite ! ” growled the old fellow be- 
tween his teeth. 

“ What did you say ? ” asked Noel. 

“ I say that he is a fine young man ; and 
I shall be delighted to make his acquain- 
tance. ” 

“ I did not show him the letter referring 
to the rupture,” added Noel ; “ so that he is 
ignorant of Madame Gerdy’s misconduct. 

I voluntarily deprived myself of this proof, 
rather than give him further pain. ” 

“ And now ? ” 

“ W T hat am I to do? I am waiting the 
count’s return. I shall act more freely after 
hearing what he has to say. To-morrow I 
shall demand permission from the tribu- 
nals to examine the papers belonging 
to Claudine. If I find the letters, I am 
saved ; if not, — but, as I have told you, I 
have taken no step since I knew of this as- 
sassination. Now, what is your advice ? ” 

“ The briefest counsel demands long re- 
flection,” replied the old fellow, who was in 
haste to depart. “ Alas ! my poor boy, 
what a fate yours has been ! ” 

“ Terrible ! and, in addition to all this dis- 
traction, I have pecuniary embarrassments.” 
“ How ! you who spend nothing ? ” 

“ I have advanced large sums on mort- 
gages. I might make use of Madame 
Gerdy’s fortune, which I have hitherto used 
as my own ; but ®o, I could not bring my- 
self to it.” 

“ You certainly ought not ; but hold I I 
am glad you spoke of money : you can 
render me a service. ” 

“ Very willingly ; in what way ? ” 

“ I have in my secretary twelve or fifteen 
thousand francs, which trouble me exceed- 
ingly, you can easily understand why. I 
am an old man, weak and defenceless. If 
any one knew I had this money — ” 


“You are certainly imprudent in running 
such a risk, ” acknowledged the advocate. 

“ Then, ” said the old fellow, “ to-morrow 
I will give them to you to take care of. ” 

But remembering lie was about to put 
himself at M. Daburon’s disposal, and that 
perhaps he might not be free on the morrow, 
he said, — 

“ But no, I will not wait until to-mor- 
row. This infernal money shall not remain 
another night in my keeping. ” 

He darted out, and presently reappeared, 
holding in his hand fifteen bank bills of a 
thousand francs each. 

“ If that is not sufficient for the present,” 
said he, handing them to Noel,“ you can 
have more. ” 

“ I will give you a receipt, ” said the ad- 
vocate. 

“ Time enough to-morrow.” 

“ And if I die to-night ? ” 

“ Then, ” said the old fellow to himself, 
thinking of his will, “ some one else will 
have to be my heir. Good-night ! ” said 
he aloud : “ you have asked my advice ; I 
shall require the night for reflection. At 
present my brain is whirling ; I must go out 
into the air. If I go to bed now, I shall 
have a horrible nightmare. Good-night, 
my boy ; patience and courage. Who knows 
whether at this very hour Providence is not 
working for you ? ” 

He went out ; and Noel, leaving his door 
open, listened to the sound of his footsteps 
as he descended the stairs. Almost imme- 
diately the cry of, “ Open, if you please,” 
and the banging of the door apprised him 
that Pere Tabaret was in the street. 

He waited a few minutes and refilled his 
lamp, then took a small packet from one of 
his bureau drawers, slipped into his pockets 
the bank bills given him by his old friend, 
and quitted his study, of which he locked the 
door. On the landing of the staircase he 
paused. He listened so intently that even 
Madame Gerdy’s moans were audible to 
him. Hearing nothing else, he descended 
on tiptoe. A minute later he was in the 
street. 


CHAPTER V. 

Communicating with Madame Gerdy’s 
apartments was a room on the ground floor, 
formerly a coach house, but used by her as 
a lumber room. Here were heaped to- 
gether all the old rubbish of the house- 
hold, — utensils past service, articles be- 
come useless or cumbrous. Here were also 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


35 


stored the provision of wood and coal for 
winter fuel. 

This old coach house had a small door 
opening on the street, which had been 
nailed up many years ago ; but Noel had 
secretly repaired this door, provided it with 
a lock, of which he kept the key, and by 
its means was enabled to enter or leave the 
house at any hour, without the porter’s 
knowledge. 

By this door the advocate went out, 
using the utmost caution in opening and 
closing it. 

When in the street, he remained a mo- 
ment stationary, as if hesitating which way 
to go. Then, turning his steps towards the 
railway depot of St. Lazare, he hailed a 
passing cab. 

“ Rue Faubourg Montmarte, at the corner 
of the Rue Provence, and make haste,” 
said Noel, entering the vehicle. 

At the spot named, the advocate alighted, 
and dismissed his coachman. Waiting until 
he had departed, Noel turned into the Rue 
Provence, and, after walking a few steps, 
rang the door-bell of one of the handsomest 
houses in the street. 

The door was immediately opened. 

When Noel passed before the loge, the 
porter made him a bow, at once respectful 
and patronizing, — one of those salutations 
which Parisian porters reserve for patrons 
of open hands and well-filled purses. 

Arrived at the second floor, the advocate 
paused, drew a key from his pocket, and 
entered as if at home. 

At the sound of the key in the lock, a 
young and pretty waiting woman, with a 
bold pair of eyes, ran towards him. 

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” cried she. 

This exclamation escaped her just loud 
enough to be audible at the extremity of 
the apartment, and serve as a signal, if 
needed. It was as if she cried, “ Take 
care ! ” Noel did not seem to remark it. 

“ Madame is there ? ” asked he. 

“ Yes, monsieur, and very angry, too, I 
can tell you. This morning she wanted me 
to go in search of you. A little while ago, 
she spoke of going herself. I have had much 
difficulty, monsieur, in not disobeying your 
orders.” 

“ Very well,” said the advocate. 

“ Madame is in the smoking room,” con- 
tinued the soubrette. “ I am making her a 
cup of tea. Will monsieur have one ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Noel, “ light me, Char- 
lotte.” 

They passed through successively a mag- 
nificent dining room, a splendid salon dore 
in the style of Louis the XIV., and entered 
the smoking room. 


This was a rather large apartment, of 
which the ceiling was remarkably elevated. 
On entering it, the visitor might easily 
imagine himself three thousand miles from 
Paris, in the house of some opulent manda- 
rin of the celestial empire'of China. Fur- 
niture, carpets, hangings, pictures, — all 
had evidently been imported direct from 
Hongkong or Shanghai. 

A rick silk tapestry, representing highly 
colored figures, clothed the walls and hung 
before the doors. All tkc empire of the 
sun and moon there defiled before the spec- 
tator. Corpulent mandarins disported 
themselves in vermilion landscapes, or, 
surrounded by lanterns, lay stupefied with 
opium, sleeping under their parasols. 
Young girls, with almond shaped eyes ele- 
vated at the outer corners, stumbled upon 
their diminutive feet, swathed in banda- 
lettes. 

The carpet of a tissue, the secret of 
which is unknown in Europe, was strewn 
with fruits and flowers, whose perfect re- 
semblance to natural objects might have 
deceived a bee. On the silken canopy, 
which hid the ceiling, some great artist of 
Pekin had painted fantastic birds, opening 
on a ground of azure their wings of purple 
and of gold. 

Slender rods of lacque, encrusted with 
mother of pearl, held the draperies in 
place, and marked the angles of the apart- 
ment. 

Two fantastic chests occupied one side 
of the room. Furniture of capricious and 
incoherent forms, tables with porcelain tops, 
and chiffoniers of precious woods encum- 
bered every recess or angle. 

Then there were ornamental nic-nacs, 
purchased in the bazars of Lien Tsi, le Ta- 
han, from Sou-Tcheou, the artistic city, — 
a thousand curiosities impossible and ex- 
pensive, from the ivory chop stick, which 
take the place of our forks, to the tea-cups 
of porcelain, thinner than soap bubbles, — 
miracles of the reign of Kien Loung. 

A divan, very large and very low, piled 
up with cushions covered with tapestry 
similar to the hangings, ran along the back 
of the room. There was no window ; but 
instead a large looking-glass, reaching 
from floor to ceiling, was let into the wall, 
in front of which was a double door of 
glass with movable panes. The space 
between this glass door and the mirror was 
filled with plants and rare exotics ; which, 
being reflected in the mirror, presented the 
optical illusion of a conservatory. 

The absent fireplace and chimney was 
replaced by registers adroitly concealed, 
which maintained a temperature in the 


36 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


apartment that seemed to make the flowers 
blow upon the silk, truly harmonizing with 
the furnishing of this luxurious abode. 

When Noel entered, a young woman 
was lying on the divan, smoking a cigar- 
ette. In spite of the tropical heat, she was 
enveloped in great shawls of magnificent 
cassimere. 

She was petite, and united in her small 
figure all the physical beauties in such per- 
fection as only small women can. Women 
who are above the medium height are 
either essays, or errors of nature. If hand- 
some, they invariably present some defect ; 
like the work of a sculptor, whose faults, 
unnoticed when presented in a statuette, 
become glaring when exhibited in a colos- 
sal figure. 

She was small ; but her neck, her shoul- 
ders, and her arms had the most exquisite 
contours. Her hands, small and plump, 
even to the retroussb finder tips and rosy 
nails, were of marvellous beauty, and 
seemed preciously cared for. Her feet, en- 
cased in silken stockings almost as thin as 
a cobweb, were a marvel ; not that they 
recalled the fabled foot which Cinderella 
thrust into the glassy slipper; but that 
other foot, — more real, more palpable, 
though less celebrated, — of which the fair 
owner (the wife of a well-known banker) 
used to present the model to her admirers 
in bronze or in marble. 

Her face was not beautiful, nor even 
pretty : but her features were such as one 
never forgets ; for, at the first glance, they 
startled the beholder like a flash of light- 
ning. Her forehead was a little high, and 
her mouth unmistakably large, notwith- 
standing the provoking freshness of her 
lips. Her eyebrows seemed to have been 
drawn with Chinese ink ; but, unhappily 
the pencil had been, used too heavily ; and 
they gave her an unpleasant expression 
when she frowned. In revenge for these 
defects, her smooth complexion had a rich 
golden pallor ; and her black and velvety 
eyes possessed enormous magnetic power. 
Her teeth were sound and of a pearly bril- 
liancy and whiteness ; and her hair, of 
prodigious opulence, was black and waving, 
and glossy as a raven’s wing. 

On perceiving Noel, as he drew aside 
the silken curtain which served as a door, 
she half-arose and leaned upon her elbow. 

“ So you have come at last ? ” said she 
in a tone of vexation: “we ought to be very 
happy ! ” 

The advocate was almost suffocated by 
the oppressive temperature of the room. 

“ How warm it is 1 ” said he ; “ it is 
enough to stifle one I ” 


“ Do you find it warm ? ” replied the 
young woman. “ Well, that shows the ex- 
tent of my suffering ! I am shivering : but 
it’s your fault ; you know that waiting is in- 
supportable to me. It acts upon my nerves ; 
and I have waited for you since yesterday.” 

“ It has been impossible for me to come, ” 
said Noel, — “ impossible ! ” 

“You know perfectly well,” continued 
the lady, “ that to-day was my settling day ; 
and I have had quite a number of bills to 
pay. The upholsterer came. Not a sou 
to give him. The coachmaker sent his 
bill. No money : call again ! then this old 
swindler who holds my note for three thou- 
sand francs, — he has been here, making a 
frightful row I All this is agreeable, is it 
not ? ” 

Noel bowed his head like a truant school- 
boy, undergoing the pedagogue’s rebuke. 

“It is but one day behind,” murmured 
he. 

“ One day behind ! ” retorted the young 
woman ; “ and is that nothing ? A man 
who respects himself may permit his own 
note to be protested, if he will ; but that of 
his mistress, never 1 ” 

“ For what do you take me ? ” continued 
she, working herself into a passion. “ Do 
you forget that I receive no consideration 
from you except money ? Very well, since I 
am to have nothing else, I will have that at 
all events ; and the day it is not forthcom- 
ing, I bid you good-by.” 

“ My dear Juliette ! — ” began the advo- 
cate, gently. 

“ Oh, yes ! that’s all very fine ; but I 
have heard it all before,” interrupted she. 

“ Your dear Juliette ! your adored Juliette 1 
and, as long as you are face to face with 
Juliette, she is an angel, if she would 
allow you to make a fool of her : but, no 
sooner have you turned your back upon 
Juliette, than she is given to the winds; 
and you never take the trouble even to re- 
member that there is such a person as Juli- 
ette 1 ” 

“ How unjust you are ! ” replied Noel. 

“ As if you are not well assured that 1 
am always thinking of you. Have I not 
proved it to you a thousand times ? Hold ! 

I am going to prove it to you again this 
instant.” 

So saying, he produced the small packet 
lie had taken from his bureau, and, opening 
it, showed her a handsome velvet casket. ° 

“ See ! ” said he, exultingly, “ the brace- 
let you wished for so much, eight days a«-o, 
at M. Beautjrau’s.” 

Madame Juliette, without rising, held out 
her hand to take the jewel case, and, open- 
ing it with the utmost nonchalance, glanced 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


37 


at the magnificent bauble; then, closing 
the casket, she threw it carelessly upon a 
little table near her, saying, — 

“ It looked much prettier in the shop win- 
dow.” 

“I am unfortunate, this evening,” said 
the advocate, apparently much mortified 
at the reception of his cdstly present. 

“ Unfortunate, my friend ? Indeed, how 
so ? ” 

“ I see plainly the bracelet does not please 
you.” 

“Oh, yes ! it is very pretty ; at all events, 
it will complete the two dozen.” 

At this Noel almost lost patience : but 
he controlled himself ; and, as she was si- 
lent, he went on, — 

“You exhibit little sign of gratifica- 
tion.” 

“ Oh ! indeed 1” cried the lady. “ I am 
not grateful enough ! I am not sufficiently 
profuse in my acknowledgments, to please 
my generous benefactor? You bring me 
a present, and expect instant payment. I 
am to fill the house with cries of joy, and 
throw myself upon my knees before your 
feet, calling you a great and magnificent 
seigneur 1 ” 

Noel was unable this time to restrain a 
gesture of impatience ; which Juliette per- 
ceived plainly enough, to her great de- 
light. 

“ Is that sufficient ? ” continued she. “ Or 
must I call Charlotte to admire this superb 
monument" of your generosity ? Shall I run 
down stairs to exhibit it to the porter? 
shall I go into the kitchen and dazzle the 
eyes of my cook, and ask her if I ought not 
to be happy in the possession of a lover so 
unboundedly munificent ? ” 

The advocate raised his shoulders like a 
philosopher, unable to answer the jests of 
a child. 

“ A truce to these cutting witticisms,” 
said he. “If you have any complaint 
against me, better to say so simply and 
seriously.” 

“ So be it,” said Juliette, quickly, chang- 
ing her manner. “ Let us be serious. And, 
being so, let me tell you it would have been 
better to have forgotten the bracelet, and 
remembered the eight thousand francs of 
which I have such pressing need.” 

“ I could not come.” 

« You might send ; there are messengers 
at the street-corners.” 

“ If I have neither brought nor sent 
them, my dear Juliette, it was because I 
did not have the amount. I have trouble 
enough in getting a promise of it to-morrow. 
If I have the sum this evening, I owe it to 
a chance upon which I could not have 


counted an hour ago ; and I have brought 
it to you to-night, at the risk of compro- 
mising myself.” 

“ Poor man ! ” said Juliette, in a tone of 
pity ; then incredulously, “ do you dare to 
tell me you have had difficulty in finding 
ten thousand francs, — you ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Noel, calmly, “ 1 1 ” 

The young woman looked at her lover, 
and burst into a fit of laughter. 

“ You are superb in the role of poor 
young man ! ” said Juliette scornfully. 

“ It is not a rdle,” said Noel stolidly. 

“ What do you say ? ” exclaimed she ; 
“ but I see what we are coming to. This 
amiable confession is the preface. To 
morrow you will be very much embarrassed ; 
and the day after to-morrow you will be 
ruined ! Avarice is the name of the com- 
plaint that afflicts you, my friend. Do you 
not feel a pang of remorse for all the money 
you have lavished upon me ? ” 

“ Selfish woman ! ” murmured Noel, an- 
grily. 

“ Truly,” continued the lady, “ I pity 
you, unfortunate lover ! Shall I get up a 
subscription for you ? In your place, I 
should issue an appeal to the benevolent.” 

Noel lost his temper, in spite of his reso- 
lution. 

“ You think it a laughing matter ? ” asked 
he bitterly. “ Well, understand me, Juli- 
ette ; I am at the end of my expedients. I 
have exhausted my resources! I am ru- 
ined 1 ” 

The eyes of the young woman bright- 
ened. She regarded her lover tenderly. 

“ Oh, if ’twas only true ! ” said she. “ If 
I could only believe you ! ” 

The advocate was wounded to the heart. 

“ She believes me,” thought he ; “ and 
she is glad : she detests me.” 

He was deceived. Madame Juliette 
never loved him so well as at that moment. 
The idea that he had loved her to the ex- 
tent of ruining himself for her, without even a 
reproach for her extravagance, almost trans- 
ported her with joy. It was but for a mo- 
ment, however. She became immediately 
incredulous. The expression of her eyes 
changed quickly. 

“ What a fool you must think me, to come 
with your romantic stories of ruin, and ex- 
pect me to believe them ! No, no, my 
friend ; such men as you do not ruin them- 
selves. It is your vain young coxcombs and 
your drivelling old dotards who ruin them- 
selves for their mistresses. You are a very 
gay young spark; but you never lose your 
senses. You are very grave and prudent, 
and, above all, very strong.” 

“ Not with you,” murmured Noel. 


38 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ Pshaw ! then leave me alone. You 
know well what you are about. Instead of 
a heart, you have a calculating machine. 
You have taken a fancy to me, and ap- 
praised me. You have said to yourself, ‘I 
can afford to pay this passion so much;’ 
and you hold yourself to your word. It is 
an investment, like any other, in which one 
receives a certain amount of interest agreed 
upon. You arc capable of all the folly and 
extravagance in the world that does not go 
beyond your limit of four thousand francs 
a month ! If it runs twenty sous over the 
amount fixed, you take up your heart and 
your hat, and carry them somewhere else.” 

“ It is true,” answered Noel, coolly. “ I 
know how to count ; and that accomplish- 
ment is very useful to me now, since it 
enables me to know how and where I have 
spent my fortune.” 

“Do you really know?” sneered Juli- 
ette. • 

“ And I can tell you,” continued he. “At 
first, you were r.ot exacting; but the appe- 
tite came with eating. You wished for lux- 
ury ; you had it : splendid furniture ; I 
gave it : extravagant toilettes, a house in 
the Rue Provence, with a marble staircase 
in front, a carriage, a pair of English horses : 
I responded, I denied you nothing. You had 
every thing you desired. I speak not of a 
thousand fantasies. I include neither this 
Chinese cabinet nor the two dozen brace- 
lets. The total is four hundred thousand 
francs ! ” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ As one can be who has had that amount, 
and has it no longer.” 

“ Four hundred thousand francs, just? 
Are there no centimes ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ There, my dear friend, I will present 
you with the bills duly receipted ; and you 
will be satisfied.” 

The entrance of the waiting woman with 
the tea-tray interrupted this amorous duct, 
of which Noel had experienced more than 
one repetition. 

Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Paris- 
ienne. She was born about 1830, in the 
highest apartment of a house in the Fau- 
bourg Montmarte. Her mother was a 
beauty of some note in her day. Her father 
was unknown. Her infancy was a long 
alternation of beatings and caresses, equal- 
ly furious ; and she was fed on sugar plums, 
sour wine, and damaged fruit : so that her 
stomach was as depraved as her intel- 
ligence. At twelve years old, she was 
meagre as a nail, and green as a June apple ; 
and, as for her mental training, a strict 
moralist would have considered her a pre- 


cocious little wretch, totally destitute of 
principle. 

As she gave no promise of beauty, she 
was placed in a store, to study the art and 
mystery of selling ribbons and laces ; when 
a wealthy and highly respectable gentle- 
man, — an old friend of her mamma’s many 
years ago, — accorded her his protection. 
This prudent old gentleman was a connois- 
seur, and detected the promise of charms, 
where others saw only indications of ugli- 
ness. He sent his protege to a school, to 
receive a varnish of education. Here she 
learned to read and write very badly, to 
play the piano tolerably, and to waltz to 
such perfection that she turned the head 
of a foreign ambassador, whom her old 
protector brought to see her at one of his 
visits. 

When the old gentleman came to take 
her from the seminary, he found she had 
been taken away already, by a young art- 
ist, who offered her half of every thing he 
possessed ; that is to say, nothing. At the 
end of three months, she quitted the studio 
of her artistic admirer, with her entire 
wardrobe tied up in a cotton pocket hand- 
kerchief. 

During the four years which followed, 
she led a precarious existence, — sometimes 
with little else to live upon but HopS, 
which never wholly abandons a young girl 
who knows she has good eyes. Bv turns 
she sunk to the bottom, and p,gain rose to 
the surface of the stream down which she 
was being carried. But she was reckless 
and imprudent. Twice had fortune in 
fresh gloves come knocking at her door ; 
and she had not the sense to seize him by 
the skirt of his paletot. 

With the assistance of a captain of a 
coasting vessel, she managed to get an ap- 
pearance at a small theatre, and acquitted 
herself adroitly enough in the trifling roles 
entrusted to her ; when Noel, by the merest 
accident, encountered her. He loved her ; 
and she became his mistress. 

The advocate did not displease her at 
first. She admired him for his polite man- 
ners, his distinguished air, his learning, 
his knowledge of the world, his contempt 
for all that was unworthy, and, above all, 
for his unalterable patience, which nothing 
could tire. Soon, however, she began to 
discover qualities to her less admirable. 
He was not amusing- He never made her 
laugh. He absolutely refused to accompa- 
ny her to any of the numerous places of 
amusement where gaiety puts on her holi- 
day garb and laughter reigns supreme. 
For absolute lack of employment, she be- 
gan to squander money ; and, in proportion 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


39 


to the gratification of her extravagant de- 
sires and the sacrifices made by her lov- 
er, her aversion to him increased. 

She rendered him the most miserable of 
men, and treated him like a very dog ; and 
this not from natural badness of disposi- 
tion, but from a firm belief in the precept, — 
the only one ever taught her by her mam- 
ma, — that a woman is beloved in propor- 
tion to the trouble she causes and the mis- 
chief she docs. 

Juliette was not wicked ; and she be- 
lieved she had much to complain of. The 
dream of her life was to be loved in a 
way which she felt, but could scarcely 
have explained. She had never been to 
her lover more than a plaything. She un- 
derstood this; and, as she was naturally 
proud, the idea enraged her. She dreamed 
of a lover who would be devoted enough 
to make a real sacrifice for her, — who 
would descend to her level, instead of at- 
tempting to raise her to his. She des- 
paired of meeting such a man. 

Noel’s extravagance, instead of melting 
her heart, hardened it. She believed he 
was very rich, and actually resented his lib- 
erality as the insolence of wealth ; for, 
strange to say, in spite of her extrava- 
gance, she cared little for money. Noel 
would have been an immense gainer by an 
outspoken frankness that would have shown 
her clearly his situation. He lost her love 
by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that 
left her ignoramt of the sacrifices he was 
making for her. 

Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal 
day he saw her, he had been a sage, a 
model of prudence and integrity. This, 
his first and only passion, burned him up ; 
and, from the disaster, he saved only ap- 
pearances. The lour walls remained stand- 
ing; but the interior of the edifice was 
destroyed. Even heroes have their vul- 
nerable parts. Achilles was wounded in 
the heel. The most artfully constructed 
armor has a joint somewhere. By Juliette, 
Noel was assailable; and her entrance 
made way for every thing. For her, in 
four years, this model young man, this ad- 
vocate of the immaculate reputation, this 
austere moralist, had wasted not only his 
own fortune, but Madame Gerdy’s also. 

He loved Juliette madly, without re- 
flection, without measure, with his eyes 
shut. Near her, he forgot all prudence, 
and became reckless of consequences. In 
her boudoir, he dropped his mask of ha- 
bitual dissimulation, and his vices displayed 
themselves at case, as his limbs in a bath. 

He felt himself so powerless against her 
that he never essayed to struggle. She 


possessed him. Once or twice he had at- 
tempted to firmly oppose her caprices ; but 
she had made him pliable as the osier. 
Under the dark glances of this girl, his 
strongest resolutions melted more quickly 
than snow beneath the April sun. She 
tortured him ; but she had also the power 
to repay him for all, — by a word, a smile, 
a single tear, or a caress. 

Away from the enchantress, reason re- 
turned at intervals ; and, in his lucid mo- 
ments, he said to himself, “ She does not 
love me. She is amusing herself with my 
folly, and laughing at my infatuation.” 
But her love had taken such deep root in 
his heart that he could not pluck it forth. 
He made himself a monster of jealousy, 
to torture him still more, and was con- 
stantly occupied in arguments within him- 
self respecting her fidelity. But he never 
had the courage to declare his suspicions. 
“ I should either have to leave her,”, thought 
he, “ or accept everything in the future.” 
At the idea of a separation from her, he 
trembled, and felt his passion strong enough 
to compel him to submit to the lowest in- 
dignity. He preferred even his desolating 
doubts to a still more dreadful certainty. 

The presence of the maid who took a 
con'siderable time in arranging the tea- 
table gave Noel an opportunity to recover 
himself. He looked at Juliette ; and his 
anger took flight. Already he began to 
fear he had been a little cruel to her. 

When Charlotte retired, he came and 
took a seat on the divan beside his mistress, 
and attempted to put his arms round her. 

“ Come,” said he in a caressing tone, 
“ you have been angry enough for this 
evening. If I have done wrong, you have 
punished me sufficiently. Make peace, 
and embrace me.” She repulsed him an- 
grily, and said in a dry tone, — 

“ Let me alone ! How many times must 
I repeat, that I am suffering from nervous- 
ness this evening.” 

“ Suffer, my love ? what ails you ? shall 
I bring the doctor ? ” 

“ There is no need. I know the nature 
of my malady. It is called ennui; and 
the doctor cannot cure me.” 

Noel rose with a discouraged air, and 
took his place at the other side of the tea- 
table, facing her. His resignation bespoke 
how habituated he had become to these re- 
buffs. Juliette snubbed him; but he re- 
turned always, like the poor dog who lies 
in wait for the instant when his caresses 
may not be inopportune. 

“ You have told me very often, during 
the last few months, that you feel ennui. 
What have I done to you ? ” 


40 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ Nothing.” 

“ Well, why then ” — ? 

“My life is nothing more than a long 
imprisonment,” answered the young woman 
with flashing eyes. “ Do you think it very 
amusing to be shut up here all alone until 
you come in, like a mute at a funeral? 
Look at yourself, — sad, disagreeable, rest- 
less, suspicious, devoured by a prying jeal- 
ousy ! ” 

“ Your reception of me, my dear Juliette, 
this evening,” ventured Noel, “ was enough 
to extinguish gaiety and freeze good 
humor ; and, as for my jealousy, one fears 
where one loves.” 

“ Thank you, monsieur. I am the occa- 
sion of your sad looks and grave speeches ! 
Go, then, and find another woman express- 
ly formed to suit your ideas, and, if you 
cannot find her, have one made to order ; 
and, when you get her, then shut her up in 
a cave, and show her to yourself once a 
day, after dinner, with the dessert, when 
the champagne is on the table. That’s 
your idea of happiness, is it ? ” 

“ I should have done better not to have 
come,” murmured the advocate. 

“ Indeed 1 That I might remain alone 
here, without any thing to occupy me ex- 
cept a cigarette and a stupid, book, that I 
go to sleep over? Do you call this an 
existence, even, never to budge out of the 
house ? ” 

“ It is the life of all the honest women 
that I know,” replied the advocate, dryly. 

“ Then I cannot compliment them on 
their enjoyments They merit all the re- 
spect they gain by being honest women, if 
they have no more amusement than that. 
Happily for me, however, I am not an 
honest woman ; although I might as well 
be, housed up more closely than the wife 
of a Turk, with your sorrowful face for my 
only distraction.” 

“ You housed up ? You live in a prison, 
you ? ” 

“ Yes, I ! ” continued Juliette, with 
eager opposition. “Let us see. Have 
you ever brought one of your friends here ? 
No. Monsieur hides me. When have you 
offered me your arm for a promenade ? 
Never. Monsieur’s dignity would be sull- 
ied, if he were seen in my company. I 
have a carriage. Have you entered it 
three times ? Perhaps ; but then you 
pulled up the blinds ! I ride out alone. I 
promenade alone.” 

“ Always the same refrain,” interrupted 
Noel, his anger beginning to rise, “ without 
ceasing these discontented complainings, as 
if you had yet to learn the reason why this 
state of things exists.” 


“ I am not ignorant,” pursued the young 
girl, “ that you blush for me. I know, at the 
same time, men who carry higher crests 
than yours who willingly show themselves 
by the side of their mistresses. Monsieur 
trembles for the fine name of Gerdy that I 
am tarnishing ; whilst the sons of the 
greatest families in France are not afraid 
to proclaim their preferences to all the 
world.” 

This home-thrust enraged Noel, to the 
great delight of Madame Chaffour. 

“ Enough of these recriminations ! ” 
cried he, rising. “ If I hide our relations, 
it is because I am constrained to do so. 
Of what do you complain? You have un- 
restrained liberty; and you use it, too, and 
so largely that your actions altogether 
escape me. You accuse me of creating a 
vacuum around you. I bring no friends to 
visit you. Am I to blame for the circum- 
stances of my position ? My friends have 
been accustomed to see me in a home 
whose aspect speaks of modest competence, 
not unrestrained extravagance. Can I 
bring them here, to be astonished by your 
luxury, by this suite of apartments, — a 
monument of my folly ? Would they not 
inquire of me, from whom have I taken 
the money that maintains this mad pro- 
fusion ? ” 

“ I may have a preference : granted ; 
but I have no right to throw away a for- 
tune which is not my own. The day it 
becomes known that my folly enables you 
to pursue your career of extravagance, my 
future prospects are destroyed. What 
client would confide his interests to an 
imbecile who permitted himself to be 
ruined by the woman whose toilettes are 
the talk of Paris? I am not a noble. I 
have neither an historical name to tarnish 
nor an immense fortune to lose. I am 
Noel Gerdy, advocate. My reputation is 
all that I possess. It is a false reputation, 
you will say. Be it so. Such as it is, it is 
necessary to me ; and I will endeavor to 
keep it.” 

Juliette knew Noel by heart. She saw 
that she had gone far enough. 

“ My friend,” said she, tenderly, “ I do 
not wish to pain you. You must be indul- 
gent. I am horribly nervous this evening.” 

This simple change of tone delighted the 
advocate, and sufficed almost to calm his 
anger. 

“ You drive me mad with your injustice,” 
said he. “ While I exhaust my imagina- 
tion to find what can be agreeable to you, 
you are perpetually attacking my gravity ; 
and forty-eight hours have not elapsed since 
we were plunged in all the extravagance of 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


41 


the carnival. To please you, I kept the 
fete of Shrove Tuesday like a student. I 
took you to the theatre ; I put on a domino, 
and accompanied you to the ball at the 
opera, and even invited two of my friends 
to sup with us.” 

“ It was very gay indeed,” answered the 
young girl, making a wry face. 

“ So it seemed to me.” 

“ Did it, indeed ? Then you are not 
difficult to please. We went to the Van- 
deville, it is true, but separately, as we 
always do, — I alone above, you below. At 
the ball, you looked the very picture of mis- 
ery ; and, at the supper-table, your friends 
were as melancholy as a pair of owls. I 
obeyed your orders, by affecting hardly to 
know you ; and, by the way, although you 
drank like a sponge, I could not see that 
you became a whit more cheerful, even 
when you were drunk.” 

“ A proof,” interrupted Noel, “ that we 
ought not to force our tastes. Let us talk 
of something else.” 

He took a few steps in the room, and 
looked at his watch. 

“ An hour gone already,” said he. “ My 
love, I must leave you. ” 

“ How, already V ” 

“ Yes, to my great regret : my mother is 
dangerously sick.” 

He displayed, and counted on the table, 
the bankbills given him by P&re Tabaret. 

“ My petite Juliette,” said he, “ here are 
not eight thousand francs, but ten thousand. 
You will not see ine again for some days.” 

“ You are going to leave Paris, then ? ” 

“ No ; but my entire time will be ab- 
sorbed by an affair of immense importance. 
If I succeed in my undertaking, mignone, 
our future happiness is assured ; and you 
will soon see how well I love you 1 ” 

“ Oh, my dear Noel, tell me what it 
is.” 

“ I cannot, now.” 

“ Tell me, I beseech you,” pleaded the 
young girl, hanging round his neck, raising 
herself upon the points of her toes to ap- 
proach her lips to his. The advocate em- 
braced her ; and his resolution seemed to 
waver. 

“.No,” said he, at length, “ I am serious, 

I cannot. Of what use to awaken in you 
hopes that may never be realized ? Now, 
my cherished, hear me well. Whatever 
may happen, understand, you must under 
no pretext whatever again come’ near my 
house, as you had once the imprudence to 
do. Do not even write to me. By disobey- 
ing, you may do me an irreparable injury. 
If any accident occurs, send for me by this 
old extortioner, Clergeot. I ought to have 


a visit from him to-morrow, or the day 
after ; he holds notes of mine.” 

Juliette recoiled, menacing Noel with a 
mutinous gesture. 

“ You will not tell me any thing ? ” in- 
sisted she. 

“ Not this evening ; but shortly I will tell 
you every thing,” replied the advocate, em- 
barrassed by the piercing glances of her 
dark eyes. 

“ Always some mystery 1 ” cried Juliette, 
piqued at the want of success attending her 
blandishments. 

“ This will be the last, I swear to you I ” 

“Noel, my good man,” said the young 
girl in a serious tone, “ you are hiding 
something from me : I know it ; I read it 
in your face. For several days, — how I 
cannot precisely explain, — you have been 
completely changed.” 

“ I swear to you, Juliette — ” 

“ No, swear nothing*; I should not be- 
lieve you. Only remember, no attempt at 
deceiving me, I forewarn you. I am a wo- 
man to revenge myself.” 

The advocate evidently was ill at ease. 

“ The affair in question,” stammered he, 
“ can as well fail as succeed.” 

“ Enough ! ” interrupted Juliette ; “ your 
will shall be obeyed. I promise that. All 
right, monsieur. Good-night. I am going 
to" bed.” 

The door was not shut upon Noel when 
Charlotte was installed on the divan, near 
her mistress. Had the advocate been lis- 
tening at the door, he would have heard 
Madame Juliette say, — 

“ What a scene 1 No, Charlotte, I can 
endure him no longer. I am afraid of him. 
He is capable of killing me 1 I can see it 
in his glance.” 

The soubrette vainly tried to defend 
Noel ; but her mistress did not listen. She 
murmured, — 

“ Why does he absent himself? and what 
is he plotting ? Some mischief, I am sure. 
An absence of eight days ! It is suspicious. 
Can he by any chance be going to be mar- 
ried ? Ah ! if I knew it. You weary me 
to death, my -good Noel, with your gravity 
and your jealousy ; and I am determined to 
break with you one of these fine mornings ; 
but I cannot permit you to quit me first. I 
cannot allow you to get married, and dis- 
miss me. No, no, my mysterious friend, I 
must have some information about your 
business of immense importance.” 

But Noel did not listen at the door. He 
left the house in haste, descended the Rue 
Provence as quickly as possible, gained the 
Rue St. Lazare, and entered as he had de- 
parted, — by the secret door. Pie had 


42 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


hardly reached his study, when the nurse 
knocked at the door. 

“ Monsieur,” said the woman, “ in the name 
of heaven, answer me 1 ” 

He opened the door, and said with im- 
patience, “ What is it now ? ” 

“ Monsieur,” stammered the servant in 
tears, “ this is the third time I have called, 
and you have not answered. Come, I im- 
plore you. I am afraid madame is dying ! ” 
He followed the nurse to Madame Ger- 
dy’s chamber. He must havd found her 
terribly changed; for he could not restrain 
a movement of terror. 

The sick woman struggled painfully be- 
neath her coverings. Her face was of a 
livid paleness, as though there was not a 
drop of blood in her veins ; and her eyes, 
which glittered with a sombre fire, seemed 
covered with a film. Her hair, loose and 
disordered, falling over her cheeks and 
upon her shoulders, contributed to her 
wild appearance. She uttered from time 
to time a groan hardly audible, or mur- 
mured unintelligible words. At times, a 
fiercer pang than common forced from her 
a cry of anguish. She did not recognize 
Noel. 

“ You see, monsieur,” said the nurse. 
“Yes. Who would have believed her 
malady could advance so rapidly ? Quick, 
run to Dr. Herve ! he will come immedi- 
ately, when you tell him it is for me.” 

And he seated himself in the arm-chair, 
facing the sick woman. 

Doctor Herve was one of Noel’s friends, 
— an old school-fellow, his companion of 
the Quartier Latin, in his student days. 
The doctor’s history differed in nothing 
from that of most young men, who, with- 
out fortune, friends, or influence, enter upon 
the practice of the most difficult, the most 
hazardous of professions in Paris. 

A man of remarkable courage and self- 
reliance, conscious of possessing superior 
talent, Herve determined neither to exile 
himself in a country village, nor place him- 
self under the control of some unprincipled 
dealer in drugs, as many of his companions 
were reduced to the necessity of doing, to 
gain a bare subsistence. “ I will remain 
in Paris,” said he to himself ; “ I will there 
become celebrated. I shall be surgeon-in- 
cliief of the hospital, and wear the cross of 
the legion of honor.” 

To enter upon this path of thorns, lead- 
ing to an arch of triumph, the future acad- 
ameeian ran himself twenty thousand francs 
in debt to furnish a small office. Here, 
armed with a patience which nothing could 
fatigue, an iron resolution that nothing 
could subdue, he struggled and waited. 


Only those who have experienced it can 
understand what sufferings are endured by 
the poor, proud man, who waits in a black 
coat, freshly shaven, with smiling lips, 
while he is starving of hunger. The refine- 
ments of civilization have inaugurated 
punishments, compared to which the tor- 
ture practised on his victim by the savage 
indian is mercy. 

The unknown physician must begin by 
attending the sick beds of the poor who 
cannot pay him, becoming known to the 
mass of human beings who take advantage 
of the needs of their fellow-men. He is 
called in by a citizen of the better class, to 
save the expense of employing a more 
thriving practitioner. The sick man is 
profuse in promises, while he is in danger ; 
but, when cured, he recovers the use of his 
faculties and forgets the doctor’s fee. 

After seven years of heroic persever- 
ance, Herve obtained at last a circle of 
patients who paid his fees. During this 
time, he had lived and payed the exorbi- 
tant interest of his debt ; but lie had suc- 
ceeded at last. Three or four pamphlets, 
and a prize won without much intrigue, 
attracted public attention to him. He be- 
came the great, the famous physician of 
Paris. 

But he is no longer the brave young 
enthusiast, full of the faith and hope that 
attended him in his visits to the poor, 
whose lives he saved without other pay- 
ment than their prayers. He comes now 
to the rich man’s sick bed, stronger and 
more self-reliant than ever, it is true, but 
neither hoping for nor rejoicing in success. 

He had used up those feelings in the days 
when he had not wherewith to pay for his 
dinner. For his great fortune in the time 
to come, he had paid too dearly in the 
past ; and now to attain success is to take 
a revenge. At thirty-five, he is blase, filled 
with disgust at the deceptions of the world 
and believing in nothing. Under the 
appearance of universal benevolence, he 
conceals universal scorn. His finesse, a 
sharpened by the grindstone of adversity, 
has become mischievous. And, while he 
sees through all disguises worn by others, 
he hides his penetration carefully under a 
mask of cheerful good-nature and jovial 
lightness. 

But he was good, he was devout, and he 
loved his friends. 

He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had 
been his haste. His first word on entering 
was, — 

“ What is the matter with him ? ” 

Noel pressed his hand in silence, and 
pointed to the bed. 


THE WIDOW LERQUGE. 


48 


In less than a minute, the doctor com- 
pleted his examination of the sick ■woman, 
and returned to his friend. 

“ What has happened to her ? ” de- 
manded he shortly. “It is necessary I 
should know.” 

The advocate started at this question. 

“ Know what ? ” stammered he. 

“ All,” answered Herve. “ This is a 
case of encephalite. I cannot be mistaken 
in the symptoms. It is an uncommon mal- 
ady, and generally fatal. Even when the 
life of the patient is saved, the functions 
of the brain usually remain arrested. 
What can have occasioned this ? There 
is no local injury to the brain or its bony 
covering. The mischief has been caused 
by some violent emotion of the soul, — a 
shock, the intelligence of some catastro- 
phe ! ” 

Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture, 
and drew him into the embrasure of the 
window. 

“ Yes, my friend,” said he in a low tone, 
“ Madame Gerdy has experienced great 
mental suffering. She has been tortured 
by remorse for crime, and apprehension of 
discovery. Listen, Herve. I will confide 
to your honor and our friendship a secret. 
Madame Gerdy is not my mother. She 
has despoiled me, to enrich her son with 
my fortune and my name. Three weeks 
have elapsed since my discovery of this 
unworthy fraud. This discovery was the 
shock you have suspected. Since then, 
she has been dying minute by minute.” 

The advocate expected some exclama- 
tions of astonishment, some questions re- 
garding the particulars of this singular 
history, from his friend ; but the doctor 
received the explanation without remark, 
as a simple statement, indispensable to his 
understanding the case. 

“ Three weeks,” murmured he ; “ that 
explains every thing. Has she appeared 
to suffer much during the time ? ” 

“ She complained of violent pains in the 
head, dimness of sight, and a noise as of 
the surging of water in her ears ; but do 
not conceal any thing from me, Hervb ; is 
there serious danger? ” 

« So serious, my friend, that I am under- 
taking a hopeless task in attempting a 
cure.” 

“ Ah ! good heaven ! ” 

“ You asked for the truth, my friend ; 
and I have had the courage to answer, 
because you tell me this poor woman is 
not your mother. Nothing short of a mir- 
acle can save her; but this miracle we 
may prepare for. And now to work.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

Eleven o’clock was striking at the Ter- 
minus of St. Lazare, when Pere Tabaret 
left his house, stunned and bewildered by 
the flood of information so unexpectedly 
poured upon him. Having been obliged to 
restrain himself while in Noel’s presence, 
his sudden release to the freedom of speech 
and deportment was delightful. On gain- 
ing the street, he reeled like a drunkard 
when he first breathes the open air, after 
leaving the heated atmosphere of the wine 
shop, so intense was the effect of the sudden 
revelations, just made by his friend Noel. 

Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at 
M. Daburon’s, he did not take a carriage. 
He felt the necessity of walking. He was 
one of those to whose brain exercise brings 
clearness. As he went along, his ideas 
clashed and shifted themselves, as grains 
of wheat when shaken in a basket. With- 
out hastening his pace, he gained the Rue 
Chaussee d’ Antin, crossed the boulevard 
with its resplendent cafes, and turned into 
the Rue Richelieu. 

He walked along, unconscious of exter- 
nal objects, tripping and stumbling over 
the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping 
on the greasy pavement. If he followed 
the proper road, it was a purely mechanical 
impulse that guided him. His mind was 
following through the darkness the myste- 
rious thread of which he had seized the 
almost imperceptible end at Jonchere. 

Persons laboring under strong emotion 
frequently, without knowing it, utter their 
thoughts aloud, little thinking into what 
indiscreet ears their revelations or dis- 
jointed phrases may fall. At every step, 
we meet in Paris people babbling to them- 
selves, and unconsciously confiding to the 
four winds of heaven their dearest secrets, 
like cracked vases that allow their contents 
to steal away. Often the passers by take 
these eccentric monologuists for madmen. 
Often the idle or curious follow, and amuse 
themselves by receiving these strange con- 
fidences. It was an indiscretion of this 
kind which told the ruin of Riscara the 
rich banker. Lambreth, the assassin of 
the Rue Yenise, betrayed himself in a sim- 
ilar manner. 

“ What a vein I ” said Pere Tabaret. 
“ What an incredible piece of good for- 
tune 1 Gevrol has well said, that, after all, 
the cleverest agent of the police is chance. 
Who would have imagined such a history ? 
I was not, however, very far from the real- 
ity. I smelt out an infant at the bottom of 
the mystery ! But who would have dreamed 
of such a thing as the substitution ? — an 


44 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


old sensational effect, used up long ago 
in plays and novels. This is a striking 
example of the danger of following pre- 
conceived ideas in police investigation. 
We are affrighted at unlikelihood ; and, as 
in this case, the greatest unlikelihood 
proves often to be the truth. We retreat 
before the absurd ; and the absurd turns out 
to be the very thing we should examine. 
Every thing is possible. 

“ I would not take a thousand crowns 
for the experiences of this evening. I 
shall kill two birds with one stone. I de- 
liver up the criminal ; and I give Noel a 
hearty clap on the shoulder to recover his 
title and his fortune. For once I shall not 
be sorry to see a boy raised to fortune from 
the school of adversity. But, pshaw ! he 
will be like all the rest. Prosperity will 
turn his head. Already he begins to prate 
of his ancestors. Poor humanity ! ” he 
burst into a fit of laughter. “ It is my 
friend Madame Gerdy who has astonished 
me most of all, — a woman to whom I would 
have given absolution before waiting to 
hear confess; and then to think that I 
was on the point of asking her hand 
in marriage ! What a narrow escape ! 
B-r-r-r I” 

At this thought, the old fellow shivered. He 
saw himself married, and all on a sudden, 
discovering the antecedents of Madame 
Tabaret, becoming mixed up with a scandal- 
ous prosecution, compromised, and rendered 
ridiculous. 

“ When I think,” he went on laughing, 
as his thoughts took another direction, — 
“ when i think of my worthy Gevrol run- 
ning after the man with ear-rings in his 
ears ! Ha, ha ! Travel, my boy, travel ! 
Voyages inform youth. How vexed he 
will be when he hears of this I He will 
wish me dead. I must jest with him a 
little, just a little. I cannot help it. If he 
wishes to do me any injury, M. Daburon 
must protect me. Talking of Daburon. 
Am I not going to take a thorn out of his 
foot ? I can see him from this spot, open- 
ing his eyes like saucers, when I say to 
him, ‘ I have the rascal ! * This investiga- 
tion will bring him honor, when all the 
credit is due to me. He will, at the least, 
receive the cross of honor. So much the 
better. He will come to me again, this 
judge. If he is asleep, I am going to give 
him an agreeable awaking. How he will 
overpower me with Questions! How he 
will want to know the end, before I can re- 
late the beginning ! ” 

Pere Tabaret, who was now crossing the 
bridge of St. Pere’s, stopped suddenly. 
“ Hold ! ” said he, “ the details ? I have 


not got them. I know the story only in the 
gross.” 

He continued his walk, and resumed, — 
“ They are right at the office ; I am too 
hasty. I am too fond of romancing, as 
Gevrol says. When I was with Noel, I 
ought to have cross-examined him, until I 
extracted from him all those little points of 
evidence which now I can only guess at ; 
but I was carried away. I drank in his 
words. I would willingly have had him 
tell the story in one sentence. But, af- 
ter all, it is but natural. When one is in 
pursuit of a stag, he does not stop to shoot 
a blackbird. Besides, by insisting on mi- 
nute particulars, I might have awakened 
suspicions in Noel’s 'mind, and led him to 
discover that I am working up the case for 
the Rue Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not 
blush for my connection with the police : I 
am even vain of it ; but I love to think 
that no one suspects it, — to see how stu- 
pid people are in not knowing the police 
who protect and guard them. And now 
for the interview ; for here we are at the 
end of our journey. ” 

M. Daburon had gone to bed, but had 
given orders to his servant ; so that Pere 
Tabaret had but to give his name, to be 
conducted to the magistrate’s sleeping- 
room. 

At sight of his amateur agent, the judge 
addressed him quickly,* — 

“ There is something extraordinary ! 
What have you discovered ? have you got 
a clew ? ” 

“ Better than that,” answered the old 
fellow, smiling at ease. 

“ Speak quickly 1 ” 

“ I have got the culprit ! ” 

Pere Tabaret ought to have been satis- 
fied ; he certainly produced an effect. The 
judge bounded from his bed. 

“ Already ? ” said he. “ Is it possible ? ” 

“ I have the honor to repeat to M. the 
judge of inquiry that I know the author 
of the crime of Jonchere.” 

“ And I,” said the judge, — “I proclaim 
you the most able of police agents past or 
future. I shall certainly never hereafter un- 
dertake an investigation without your as- 
sistance.” 

“ You are too kind, monsieur. I have had 
little or nothing to do in the matter. The 
discovery is due to chance alone.” 

“ You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance 
assists only wise men. She disdains to aid 
the stupid ; but I beg you will be seated 
and talk.” 

Then with a lucidity and precision of 
which few would have believed him capa- 
ble, the old fellow repeated to the judge all 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


45 


of Noel’s story. He repeated from memory 
the extracts from the letters, almost with- 
out changing a word. 

“ These letters,” added he, “ I have seen ; 
and I have even carried off one, in order to 
verify the writing. Here it is.” 

“ Yes,” murmured the magistrate, — 
“ yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered the 
criminal. The evidence is palpable, even 
to the blind. Heaven has willed this. 
Crime engenders crime. The misdeeds of 
the father have made the son an assas- 
sin.” 

“ I have not given you the names, mon- 
sieur,” said Pere Tabaret. “ I wished first 
to hear your opinion of the evidence.” 

“ Oh 1 you can name them,” interrupted 
the judge with a certain degree of anima- 
tion. {, If ever so high in position, they 
shall not escape the law. A French 
magistrate never hesitates.” 

“ I know it, monsieur ; but we are going 
high this time. The father who has sacri- 
ficed his legitimate to his natural son is the 
Count Rheteau de Commarin ; and the as- 
sassin of the Widow Lerouge is the natural 
son, Albert Vicomte de Commarin ! ” 

Pere Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, 
had uttered these words with a deliberate 
emphasis, expecting confidently to produce 
a great impression. His attempt overshot 
itself. M. Daburon was struck with stu- 
por. He remained motionless, his eyes 
dilated with astonishment. Mechanically 
he repeated it, like a strange word, the 
«ense of which he was trying to under- 
stand. 

“ Albert de Commarin ! Albert de Com- 
marin ! ” 

“ Yes,” insisted Pere Tabaret, “ the no- 
ble viscount. He is the last man in the 
world to be expected, I know.” 

But he perceived the alteration of the 
judge’s face ; and, a little frightened, he 
approached the bed. 

“ Are you unwell ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” answered Daburon, without know- 
ing what he said. “ I am very well ; but 
the surprise, the emotion,” — 

“•I understand that,” said the old fellow. 

“ I wish you would leave me for a few 
minutes ; but do not depart. We »nust con- 
verse at some length on this business. 
Will you step into my study ? There ought 
to be a fire still burning there. I will re- 
join you in an instant.” 

Then Daburon rose lightly from the 
bed, put on a dressing-gown, and seated 
himself, or rather fell, into an arm-chair. 
His face, to which the exercise of his aus- 
tere functions had given the immobility of 
marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; 


while his eyes betrayed the inward agony 
of his soul. 

The name of Commarin, suddenly pro- 
nounced, awakened in him the most sor- 
rowful recollections, and tore open a wound 
but badly healed. This name recalled to 
him an event which had rudely extin- 
guished his youth and broken his life. In- 
voluntarily, he carried his thoughts back to 
this epoch, and compelled himself to taste 
again all its bitterness. 

An hour ago, it had seemed to him far 
removed, and already hidden in the mists 
of the past. One word had sufficed to re- 
call it, clear and distinct. It seemed to 
him now that this event with which he 
connected the name of Albert de Com- 
marin dated from yesterday, instead of 
which two years had elapsed. 

Pierre Marie Daburon belonged to one 
of the oldest families of Poitou. Three or 
four of his ancestors had filled sucessively 
the most considerable offices in the prov- 
ince. Why, then, had they not bequeathed 
a title and their arms to their descend- 
ants ? 

The magistrate’s worthy father inhabited 
an ugly modern castle ; but it was sur- 
rounded by about eight hundred thousand 
franc’s worth of the best land in France. 
His mother was a Cottevise-Luxe, from 
whom he inherited the blood of the highest 
nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclu- 
sive families in France, as every one 
knows. 

When he was appointed a judge of in- 
quiry in Paris, his parentage openyd for 
him without delay five or six aristocratic 
salons ; and he was not slow to extend his 
circle of acquaintance. 

He passed, however, few of the qualifica- 
tions for social success. He was cold and 
grave even to sadness, reserved and timid 
to excess. His mind wanted brilliancy 
and lightness ; he lacked the facility of re- 
partee, and the amiable art of conversing 
without a subject, — which is almost a ne- 
cessity in mixed companies. He could 
neither relate a bon mot nor pay a com- 
pliment. Like most men who feel deeply, 
he was unable to translate his impressions 
immediately. Reflection was necessary to 
him ; and he fell back upon himself. 

To compensate for these defects, he pos- 
sessed other qualities more solid, — nobility 
of sentiment, strength of character, and in- 
tegrity of purpose. Those who knew him 
quickly learned to esteem his sound judg- 
ment, his keen sense of honor, and to dis- 
cover under his cold exterior a warm heart, 
an excessive sensibility, and a delicacy 
almost feminine. In a word, although he 


46 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


might be eclipsed by the wits and triflers 
of a crowded salon, he charmed all hearts 
in a smaller circle, where he felt warmed 
by the purer atmosphere of sympathy. 

He accustomed himself to go abroad a 
great deal. He reasoned, wisely perhaps, 
that a magistrate can make better use of 
his time than by remaining shut up in his 
study, in company with books of law. He 
thought a man, to be a judge, ought to know 
something of mankind ; and, with that be- 
lief, he entered upon the study of the sub- 
ject. An attentive and discrete observer, 
he examined around him the play of human 
interests and passions, exercised himself in 
disentangling and manoeuvring at need 
the strings of the puppets he saw moving 
about him. Piece by piece, so to say, he 
labored to comprehend the working of the 
complicated machine called society, of 
which he was charged to overlook the 
movements, regulate the springs, and pre- 
serve the healthful action. 

All on a sudden, towards the commence- 
ment of the winter of 1860 and 1861, Dabu- 
ron disappeared. His friends sought for 
him : he was nowhere to be found. What 
had become of him ? Inquiry resulted in 
the discovery that he passed nearly all his 
evenings at Madame d’ Arlanges’ house. 
The surprise was as great as it was natural. 

This dear marquise was, or rather is, — for 
6he is still in the land of the living, — a per- 
sonage rather out of date and rococo in the 
dowagers of the Princess de Southenay’s 
circle. She is surely the most singular 
link between the eighteenth century and 
our own. How, and by what marvelous 
process she has been preserved such as we 
see her, from so remote an age to the pres- 
ent, is a more puzzling question than we 
can explain. Listening to her, you would 
swear that she was yesterday at one of the 
queen’s soirees, whose passion for cards 
was the annoyance of Louis XIV., at whose 
parties the great ladies cheated openly in 
emulation of each other. 

Manners, language, habits, even costume, 
she preserved them all; and, as time had 
touched them, not to beautify but to disfig- 
ure, the effect was not the most pleasing. 
A glimpse of her head-dress is more than 
a long article of review of the court of 
Louis XIV. ; an hour’s conversation, more 
than a volume of the “ Confessions of 
Madame de Maintenon.” 

She was born in a little German princi- 
pality, where her parents had taken refuge 
from their wild and rebellious people. She 
had been nursed, when a child, on the knees 
of old Emigres, in a salon very old and 
very much gilded, resembling a cabinet of 


curiosities. Her mind was awakened 
amid the hum of antediluvian conversa- 
tions, her imagination aroused by argu- 
ments a little less profitable than those of 
an assembly of dunces, convoked to decide 
the merits of a Greek hexameter. Here 
she imbibed a fund of ideas, which, applied 
to the forms of society to-day, are grotesque, 
as would be those of an individual shut up 
for twenty years in an Assyrian museum. 

The empire, the restoration, the mon- 
archy of July, the second republic, the 
second empire, have passed beneath her 
windows ; but she has not taken the pains 
to open them. All that has taken place 
since ’89 she ignores, or at most looks upon 
as a dream, a nightmare, and expects an 
awakening. She has seen every thing ; 
but she has seen it through spectacles of 
her own making; which present objects not 
as they are, but as she wishes them to be. 

At the age of sixty-eight, she was straight 
as an arrow, and had never known a day’s 
sickness. She ate her four meals a day 
with the appetite of a grape-gatherer, and 
drank when she was thirsty. She was 
so vivacious and active that she never 
rested save when sleeping, or when 
seated at her favorite game of piquet. She 
professed an undisguised contempt for the 
silly women of our century, who dine on 
the wing of a partridge, and talk you to 
death with philosophical disquisitions. 
Positive and over-bearing in all things, her 
word was prompt and easily understood. 
Her language was never rendered obscure 
by unnecessary delicacy. She never shrank 
from using the most appropriate words to 
express her meaning. If she offended some 
refined ears, so much the worse, — for their 
owners. What she most detested was hy- 
pocrisy. 

She believed in God ; but she believed 
also a little in Voltaire. In fact, her devo- 
tion was, to say the least, problematical. 
However, she was on good terms with the 
curate of her parish, and was very partic- 
ular about the arrangement of her dinner 
on the days she honored him with an invi- 
tation to her table. She considered him a 
subaltern, very useful to her salvation, and 
deserving of the honor of opening for her 
the gate of paradise. 

Slie was shunned like the plague. Every- 
body dreaded her high voice, ‘her terrible 
indiscretion, and the frankness of speech 
she seemed to effect, in order to claim the 
right of saying the most a,in pleasant things 
before your face. Of all her family, there 
remained only her grand-daughter, whose 
father had died very young. 

Of a fortune originally large, she had 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


47 


been able to preserve but a small remnant, 
on which she supported her small house- 
hold in genteel, or rather aristocratic pov- 
erty. She was, however, proprietor of the 
pretty little house in which she lived, near 
the Invalides, situated between a rather 
narrow court and a very extensive and 
beautiful garden. 

So circumstanced, she considered her- 
self the most unfortunate of God’s creatures, 
and passed the greater part of her time 
crying, miserere ! From time to time, she 
declared she expected to be reduced to ab- 
solute beggary, and to die in a hospital. 

A friend of M. Daburon’s presented him 
one evening to the Marquise d’Arlanges, 
having dragged him to her house in a 
mirthful mood, saying, “ Come with me, 
and I will show you a phenomenon, — a 
ghost of the past in flesh and bone.” 

The marquise received the magistrate 
graciously enough ; and her eccentricities 
amused him. On his second visit, she 
amused him still more ; for which reason, 
he came a third time. But she amused 
him no longer ; henceforth, every faculty 
of his soul was absorbed in studying the 
charms of the young and tender rose who 
was blooming into loveliness, in this to him 
henceforth enchanted dwelling. 

Madame d’ Arlanges conceived a violent 
friendship for him, and became eloquent in 
his praises. 

“ A most charming young man,” she de- 
clared, “ delicate and sensible 1 What a 
pity he was not born — ” (Her ladyship 
meant born of noble parentage, but used 
the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfor- 
tunates who are not noble having been born 
at all ;) “ although it is plainly to be seen he 
ought to be. His family, by the father’s 
side, were people of considerable impor- 
tance ; and his mother was a Cottevise, who 
made a mesalliance. I approve of the young 
man, and shall advance him in the world 
by my countenance.” 

The strongest proof of the favorable im- 
pression he had made upon the marquise 
was, that she condescended to pronounce 
his name like the rest of the world. She 
preserved this affectation of forgetfulness 
of the names of people who were not “ born,” 
and who in consequence have no right to 
names. She was so confirmed in this habit, 
that, if by accident she pronounced the 
name of one of those people correctly, she 
repeated it immediately in some ridiculous 
manner. 

At his first visit, the judge was amused 
to hear his name changed every time she 
addressed him in the most unaccountable 
way. Successively she made it Taburon, 


Dabiron, Maliron, Laridon ; but, in less 
than three months, she called him Daburon 
as distinctly as if he had been a duke of 
something, and seigneur of somewhere. 

On occasions, she amused herself, endeav- 
oring to prove to the worthy magistrate 
that he must be noble, or at least ought to 
be. She would have been happy, if she 
had succeeded in making him wrap himself 
up in a title, and put a coat of arms upon 
his visiting cards. 

“ How is it possible,” said she, “ that 
your ancestors, eminent, wealthy, and influ- 
ential, never thought of purchasing a title 
for their descendants ? What a pity they 
have not left you some presentable coat of 
arms! ” 

“My ancestors were proud,” responded 
M. Daburon. “ They preferred being fore- 
most among their fellow-citizens to becom- 
ing newly-created nobles.” 

Upon which the marquise explained, and 
proved to a demonstration, that between 
the most influential and wealthy untitled 
citizen and the smallest scion of nobility, 
there was an abyss that all the money in 
the world could not fill up. 

They who were surprised at the fre- 
quency of the magistrate’s visits to this cel- 
ebrated “ relic of the past ” had no idea 
that the real attraction was not the mar- 
quise, but her grand-daughter, Claire, whose 
presence converted the old-fashioned house 
into a bower of enchantment. 

Mademoiselle Claire d’ Arlanges had al- 
ready seen seventeen summers. She was 
very gracious and sweet in manner, and rav- 
ishing in her natural innocence and fearless- 
ness of harm. She had blonde, ash-col- 
ored hair, very fine and thick, which slfe 
wore over a large roll above her forehead, 
and which fell in large masses upon her 
neck, in the most artless fashion imaginable. 
Her figure, though graceful, was rather 
slender ; but her face recalled the celestial 
pictures of Guido. Her blue eyes, shaded 
by long lashes of a hue darker than her 
hair, had above all an adorable expres- 
sion. 

A certain air of antiquity, caught from 
association with her grandmother, added 
yet another charm to the young girl’s man- 
ners. She had more sense, however, than 
her relative ; and, as her education was 
not neglected, she had imbibed ideas of the 
world in which she lived sufficiently exact 
to preserve her from imitating her grand- 
mother’s absurdities. This education, these 
practical ideas, Claire owed to her govern- 
ess, upon whose shoulders the marquise had 
thrown the sole responsibility of cultivating 
her mind. 


48 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt, 
chosen at hazard, taken “ with eyes shut,” 
happened by the most fortunate chance to 
be both well informed and possessed of 
principle. She was, what is often met 
with on the other side of the Rhine, a woman 
at once romantic and practical, of the ten- 
derest sensibility and the severest virtue. 
This good woman, while she carried her 
pupil into the land of sentimental phantasy 
and poetical imaginings, gave her at the 
same time the most practical instruction in 
matters relating to actual life; and, while 
she deprived Claire of all the peculiarities 
of thought and manner that rendered her 
grandmother so ridiculous, she preserved in 
her mind all the respect that was due to 
her position and the relations between 
them. 

This was the young girl who attracted 
M. Daburon to Madame d’ Arlanges’ salon, 
where he sat evening after evening, listen- 
ing, without hearing, to her rigmaroles, her 
interminable anecdotes of the emigration ; 
while he gazed upon Claire, as a fanatic 
upon his idol. Often, in his ecstasy, he 
forgot where he was for the moment, ab- 
solutely became oblivious of the old lady’s 
presence ; although her shrill voice was 
piercing the tympanum of his ear, as a 
needle goes through cloth. Suddenly re- 
called to consciousness, he answered her at 
cross-purposes, committing the most singu- 
lar blunders, which he labored afterwards 
to explain. But this did not much impede 
the conversation. Madame d’ Arlanges did 
not perceive her courtier’s absence of mind ; 
and her questions were of such a length, 
and succeeded each other so rapidly, that 
the answers were of little consequence. 
Having a listener, she was satisfied, pro- 
vided that from time to time he gave signs 
of life. 

When obliged to sit down to piquet, he 
cursed below his breath the game and 
its detestable inventor. He paid no atten- 
tion to his cards. He made mistakes every 
moment, dealt without seeing, and forgot to 
cut. The old dame was annoyed by these 
continual distractions ; but she did not 
scruple to profit by them. She watched 
the deal, rectified all mistakes ; while she 
counted audaciously points she never made, 
and pocketed his money without remorse. 

As Daburon’s timidity was extreme, and 
Claire was unsociable to excess, they never 
spoke to each other. During the entire 
winter, the judge did not address ten times 
a direct word to the young girl ; and, on 
these rare occasions, he had learned by 
heart mechanically the phrase he proposed 
to repeat to her, well knowing that, without 


this precaution, he would be obliged to re- 
main silent. 

But at least he saw her, he breathed the 
same air with her, he heard her voice, 
whose pure and harmonious vibrations 
thrilled his very soul. 

By constantly watching her eyes, he 
learned to understand all their expressions. 
He believed he could read in them all her 
thoughts, and through them look into her 
soul as into an open window. 

“ She is pleased to-day, ” said he to 
himself ; and then he was happy. At other 
times, he thought, “ She has met with some 
annoyance to-day ; ” and immediately he 
became sad. 

The idea of asking for her hand many 
times presented itself to his imagination ; 
but he never dared to entertain it. Know- 
ing, as he did, the marquise’s prejudices, her 
devotion to titles, her dread of mesalliance, 
he was convinced she would reject his suit ; 
and he did not dare to risk the dissolution 
of his present happiness upon so slender a 
hope of success. Poor man 1 he had reached 
the altitude of love where it feeds upon its 
own misery. 

“ Once repulsed, ” he thought, “ the 
house is shut against me ; and then farewell 
to happiness : this life is finished for me.” 

Upon the other hand, the very rational 
thought occurred to him that some other 
might see Mademoiselle d’ Arlanges ; seeing, 
love her, and, in consequence, demand and 
perhaps obtain her. 

In either case, hazarding a proposal, or 
hesitating still, he must certainly lose her 
in the end. By the commencement of 
spring, his mind was made up. 

One fine afternoon, in the month of April, 
he bent his steps towards the Hotel d’ 
Arlanges, having truly need of more brav- 
ery than if he were a soldier, about to face 
a battery. He, like the soldier, whispered 
to himself “ Victory or death ! ” The mar- 
quise, who had gone out shortly after break- 
fast, had just returned in a terrible rage, 
and was uttering screams like an eagle. 

This was what had taken place. She 
had had some work done by a neighboring 
painter some eight or ten months before ; 
and the workman presented himself a hun- 
dred times to receive payment, without 
avail. Tired of this proceeding, he had 
summoned the high and mighty Marquise 
d’Arlanges before the courts. 

This summons had exasperated the mar- 
quise ; but she kept the matter to herself, 
having decided, in her wisdom, to call upon 
the judge of the court himself, and request 
him to reprimand the insolent painter who 
had dared to plague her for a paltry sum 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


49 


of money. The result of this fine project 
may be guessed. The j udge had been com- 
elled to eject her forcibly from his office; 
ence her fury. 

M. Daburon found her in the rose-col- 
ored boudoir in half dishabille, and com- 
plete disorder of head-dress, red as a peony, 
surrounded by the debris of glass and china 
which had fallen under her hands in the 
first moments of her passion. To complete 
her annoyance, Claire and her governess 
were gone out. An excited and terrified 
femme de cliambre was inundating the old 
lady with water, in the hope of calming her 
nerves. 

She received Daburon as a messenger 
direct from Providence. In a little more 
than half an hour, she told her story, in- 
terlarded with interjections and impreca- 
tions. 

“ Do you comprehend this judge ? ” cried 
she. “ This must be some frantic Jacobin, — 
some son of the furies, who washed their 
hands in the blood of their king. Oh ! my 
friend, I read stupor and indignation on 
your visage. He has listened to the com- 
plaint of this buffoon, to whom I have given 
the means of living, by employing him. 
And when I waited upon him in his office, 
and addressed to him, as I owed it to my- 
self to do, some severe remonstrances, he 
actually turned me out of the room ! me ! 
turned me out ! ” 

At this painful recollection, she made a 
fierce gesture with her arms. In her sud- 
den movement, she struck a superb flacon, 
which the femme de chambre was holding. 
The blow dashed it to pieces against the 
wall of the boudoir. 

“ Stupid, awkward fool ! ” she cried, turn- 
ing^ her anger upon the frightened girl. 

Daburon, stunned at first, now endeav- 
ored to calm her exasperation. She did 
not allow him to pronounce three words. 

“ Happily you are here,” she continued : 
“I have told you all. I count upon you ! 
you will exercise your influence, your pow- 
erful friends, your credit, to have this pitiful 
painter and this miscreant of a judge flung 
into some deep ditch, to teach them tjie 
respect due to a woman of my rank.” 

The magistrate did not permit himself 
even to smile at this imperative demand. 
He had heard many speeches as absurd 
issue from her lips without daring to per- 
ceive their absurdity. Was she not Claire’s 
grandmother ? for that he loved and ven- 
erated her. He blessed her for her grand- 
daughter, as an admirer of nature blesses 
heaven for the wild flower that delights 
him with its perfume. 

The fury of the old lady was terrible ; 

4 


nor was it of short duration. It was able, 
like the anger of Achilles, to last through 
ten chapters. At the end of an hour, how- 
ever, she was, or appeared to be, pacified. 
They replaced her head-dress, repaired the 
disorder of her toilette, and picked up the 
fragments of broken china. Vanquished 
by her own violence, the reaction was im- 
mediate and complete. She fell back help- 
less and exhausted in the arm-chair. 

This magnificent result was due to the 
magistrate. To accomplish it, he had to use 
all his ability, to exercise the most angelic 
patience, the greatest tact. His triumph 
was the more meritorious, because he came 
unprepared for this adventure, which in- 
terfered with his intended proposal. He 
had arrived filled with something like a 
resolve to speak of his wishes ; and this 
untoward event declared against him : but 
he had a good heart to oppose to misfor- 
tune. 

Arming himself with his professional elo- 
quence, he talked the old lady into calm- 
ness. He was not so foolish as to contra- 
dict her. On the contrai’y, he caressed her 
hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by 
turns. He attacked the authors of the 
revolution, cursed its errors, deplored its 
crimes, and reviewed its disastrous results. 
From the infamous Marat, by an adroit 
allusion he attacked the infamous judge 
who had offended her. He abused the 
scandalous conduct of the magistrate in 
good set terms, and was awfully severe 
upon the dishonest scamp of a painter, 
lie declared that they deserved the lowest 
dungeon in the Bastile ; but the conclusion 
to which he arrived was, that the severest 
blow she could administer to thfe man’s 
impertinence and the judge’s incapacity 
would be to pay the bill, and compel them 
to give her a receipt in full for all demands. 

The discontented syllable “ pay” brought 
Madame d’ Arlanges to her feet in the fierc- 
est attitude. 

“ Pay ! ” she screamed. “ In order that 
these scoundrels may persist in their obdu- 
racy? encourage them by a culpable 
weakness ? Never 1 And, moreover, to 
pay, it is necessary to have money ; and I 
have none 1 ” 

“ Why,” said the judge, “ it amounts to 
but eighty-seven francs ! ” 

“ And is that nothing? ” asked the mar- 
quise : “ you talk very easily, M. Daburon. 
It is easy to see that you have money : 
your ancestors were people of no rank ; and 
the revolution passed a hundred feet above 
their heads. Who can tell whether they 
may not have been the gainers by it ? It 
has taken all from the d’ Arlanges. 


50 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


What will they do to me, if I do not 
pay?” 

“ Well, madame le marquise, many 
things, — ruin you, in short : you will receive 
a notification from the courts. If that is 
not attended to, your furniture will be 
seized.” 

“ Alas ! ” cried the old lady, “ the revolu- 
tion is not over yet. We have not passed 
through all its horrors ! How fortunate 
you are, M. Daburon, in being of the 
people ! I see plainly that I must pay this 
man ; and it is frightfully sad for me, who 
have nothing, and am forced to make such 
sacrifices for sake of my grandchild ! ” 

The word “ sacrifices ” surprised the 
magistrate so strongly that involuntarily he 
repeated it half-aloud, “ Sacrifices ? ” 

“ Certainly ! ” replied Madame d’Ar- 
langes. “ Without her, would I have to 
live as I am doing, refusing myself every 
thing to make both ends meet? Was it 
not for her sake I placed all that I pos- 
sessed in the funds, and lost it? But Ido 
not consider myself. I know, thank heav- 
en, the duties of a mother ; and I guard 
all mine well for my little Claire.” 

To this extraordinary devotion, M. 
Daburon had no reply to make. 

“ Ah ! this dear child torments me 
terribly,” continued the marquise. “ I 
confess, M. Daburon, it makes me giddy 
when I think of her establishment.” 

The judge reddened with pleasure. The 
occasion had come at a gallop. She was 
turning to leave the room, when he de- 
tained her. 

“ It seems to me,” stammered he, “ that 
to establish Mademoiselle Claire ought to be 
easy.” 

“ Unfortunately, it is any thing but easy. 
She is pretty enough, although unpolished ; 
but, now-a-days, beauty goes for nothing. 
Men are so mercenary they think only of 
money. I do not know of one who has the 
manhood to take a d’Arlanges with her 
bright eyes for a dowry.” 

“I believe that you exaggerate,” said 
the judge timidly. 

“ By no means. Besides, when I find a 
son-in-law, he will cause me a thousand 
troubles. Of this, I am assured by my 
lawyer. I can be compelled, it seems, to 
render an account of Claire’s patrimony. 
As if I ever kept accounts 1 It is shame- 
ful. Ah 1 if Claire had any sense of filial 
duty, she would quietly take the veil in 
some convent. I would use every effort to 
pay the necessary dower ; but she has no 
affection for me.” 

Daburon felt that the time to speak had 
arrived. He collected his courage, as a good 


horseman pulls his horse together the mo- 
ment he faces the leap, and in a voice, 
which he tried to render firm, commenced, — 

“ Madame, I know, I believe, just the 
person for Mademoiselle Claire, — an honest 
man, who loves her, and who will do every 
thing in the world to make her happy.” 

“ That,” said Madame d’ Arlanges, “ is 
always understood.” 

“ The man of whom I speak,” continued 
the judge, “ is still young, and is rich. He 
will be only too happy to receive Mademoi- 
selle Claire without dowry. Not only will he 
decline an examination of your accounts of 
guardianship, but he will supply you with 
means to free your own property of all 
incumberance.” 

“Peste ! ” exclaimed the old dame ; 
“ you are not a bad friend, M. Daburon ! ” 

“ If you prefer to place your fortune in 
an annuity, your son-in-law will make 
good whatever deficiency remains.” 

“ Ah ! I am suffocating. If you have 
known such a man, why have you not 
already presented him ? ” 

“I did not dare, madame : I was afraid.” 

“ Quick ! tell me who is this admirable 
son-in-law, — this white blackbird? where 
does he nestle ? ” 

The judge felt a strange fluttering of 
the heart : he was going to stake his happi- 
ness on a word. At length, he stam- 
mered, — 

“ It is I, madame I ” 

His voice, his look, his suppliant gesture, 
were ridiculous in the eyes of the old lady ; 
and she laughed till the tears came. He, 
frightened at his own audacity, stunned at 
having vanquished his timidity, was on the 
point of falling at her feet. At last, rais- 
ing her shoulders, she cried, — 

“ My dear Daburon, you are too ridicu- 
lous ! In good truth, you will make me 
die of laughing.” 

But suddenly, in the very height of her 
merriment, she stopped, and assumed her 
most dignified air. 

“ Are you perfectly serious in all you 
have told me, M. Daburon ? ” 

“ I have stated the truth,” murmured 
the judge. 

“You are very rich, then ? ” 

“ I have, madame, in right of my mother, 
about twenty thousand livres a year. One 
of my uncles died about a year ago, leaving 
me a hundred thousand crowns. Mv father 
is worth not less than a million. "Were I 
to ask him for the half to-morrow, he would 
give it to me. He would give me all his 
fortune, if it were necessary to my happi- 
ness, and be but too well contented, should 
I relieve him of its administration.” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


51 


Madame d’Arlanges made a sign to him ^"*He walked with his head high, his chest 

HP SI I P T1 1 " • 54 n n "T rw n ir O /vaa/"1 1 n nl a o n rl il n+rv /I n 4- » %-» /«* 4- 1-* n i i I 1» i « -• 11 ^ ^ 


to be silent ; and, for five good minutes at 
least, she remained plunged in reflection, 
her forehead resting in her hands. At 
length she raised her head. 

“ Hear me,” said she. “ Had you been 
so hardy as to make this proposal to 
Claire’s father, he would have called his 
servants to show you the door ; but I am 
old and desolate. I am poor. My grand- 
child’s prospects disquiet me ; and that is 
my excuse for not acting in like manner. 
I cannot, however, consent to speak to 
Claire of this horrible mesalliance. This 
much I can promise you; and it is 
much, I will not be against you. Take 
your own measures. Pay your addresses 
to Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. Let her 
decide. If she says ‘yes,’ I shall not say 
‘ no.’ ” 

Daburon, transported with happiness, 
would have embraced the old lady, if he 
dared. He never dreamed of the facility 
with which this fierce soul had been brought 
to yield. He was delirious. 

“ Wait 1 ” said the old lady ; “ your cause 
is not yet gained. Your mother, it is true, 
was a Cottevise ; and I must excuse her for 
marrying so wretchedly : but your father is 
Sieur Daburon. This name, my dear friend, 
is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will 
be possible to wrap up in Daburon a young 
girl who for eighteen years has been called 
d’Arlanges ? ” 

This objection did not seem to trouble the 
judge. 

“ After all,” continued the old lady, “ your 
father has gained a Cottevise : you may win 
a d’Arlanges ; and, on the strength of an al- 
liance with the daughter of a house whose 
nobility has descended from sire to son for so 
many generations, the Daburons may end 
by being ennobled. Who knows? One 
last advice : you believe Claire to be just 
as she looks, — timid, sweet, obedient. Un- 
deceive yourself, my friend. With her 
saintly air and delicate touch, she is hardy, 
fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her 
father was, who resembled a mule of 
Auvergne. You see, I forewarn you. Our 
conditions are agreed to, are they not ? 
Let us say no more on the subject. I wish 
you every success. ” 

This scene was so present to his mind, as 
he sat there at midnight in his own house in 
his arm-chair, after so long a lapse of time, 
that he still seemed to hear the old lady’s 
voice ; and this word “ success ” sounded in 
his ear. 

He departed in triumph from the Hotel 
d’Arlanges, which, he had entered with a 
heart swelling with anxiety. 


dilated, breathing the air with full respira- 
tions. 

He was so happy ! The sky appeared to 
him more blue, the sun more brilliant. 

The grave magistrate felt a mad desire to 
stop the passers by, to press them in his 
arms, to cry to them, — 

“Do you not know, the marquise con- 
sents ? ” 

He walked ; and the earth seemed to him 
to bound beneath his steps. He felt too 
small to contain his happiness, too light to 
remain on the earth. He was going to fly 
away towards the stars. 

What a castle in Spain did he build 
upon this little word of the marquise ! He 
tendered his resignation. He built on the 
banks of the Loire, not far from Tours, 
an enchanting little villa. He saw it smiling, 
with its fa 9 ade to the rising sun, seated 
in the midst of flowers, and shaded with 
great trees. He furnished this dwelling as 
if for the reception of the queen of the 
fairies. He wished to provide a casket 
wortny the pearl he was going to possess, 
for he had not a dread of shipwreck, to ob- 
scure the horizon made radiant by his hopes, 
not a voice at the bottom of his heart raised 
itself to cry, “ Beware ! ” 

From this time, his visits to the marquise 
became more frequent. He might be said 
to live at her house. 

While he preserved his respectful and re- 
served demeanor towards Claire, he strove 
assiduously to be something in her life. He 
strove to conquer his timidity, to speak to 
this well beloved of his soul, — to con- 
verse with her, to interest her. 

He went in quest of novelty, to amuse her. 
He read all the new books, and brought to 
her all that were fit for her to read. 

Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the 
most delicate persistence, in taming his 
wood pigeon. He began to perceive that 
her fear of him had almost disappeared, that 
she no longer received him with the cold 
and haughty air which so long had kept 
him at a distance. He felt that insensibly 
he was advancing in her confidence. She 
still blushed when she spoke to him ; but 
she no longer hesitated to address the first 
word. She even ventured at times to ask 
him a question. She had heard a play 
spoken of, and wished to know the subject. 
M. Daburon quickly ran to see it, and com- 
mitted a complete account of it to writing, 
which he addressed to her by mail. At times 
she entrusted him with trifling commissions, 
the execution of which he would not have ex- 
changed for a Russian embassy. 

Once he ventured to send her a magnifi- 


52 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


cent bouquet. She accepted it with an air 
of surprised disquietude, and begged him 
not to repeat the offering. 

The tears came to his eyes ; and he left 
her presence wounded, — the unhappiest of 
men. 

But, three days after, she raised him from 
this despair, by begging him to look for 
certain flowers, then very much in fashion, 
she wanted for her little garden. He sent 
enough to fill the house from the garret to 
the cellar. 

“ She loves me,” he whispered to himself. 

These little events, so great, had not inter- 
rupted the parties at piquet ; only the young 
girl now appeared interested in the game, 
nearly always taking part with the judge 
against the marquise. She did not under- 
stand the game very well ; but, when the 
old gambler cheated too openly, she would 
perceive it, and say, laughing, — 

“ She is robbing you, M. Daburon, — she 
is robbing you ! ” 

He would willingly be robbed of his entire 
fortune, to hear that sweet voice raised for 
him. 

It was summer. 

Often in the evening she accepted his 
arm ; and, while the marquise remained in 
the porch, seated in her arm-chair, they 
walked around the garden, treading lightly 
upon the paths spread with gravel, sifted so 
fine that the trailing of her light robe ef- 
faced the traces of their footsteps. She 
chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved 
brother ; while he was obliged to do vio- 
lence to his feelings, to refrain from imprint- 
ing a kiss upon the little blonde head, from 
which the light breeze lifted the curls and 
scattered them like fleecy clouds. At such 
moments, he seemed to tread a triumphant 
path, strewn with flowers, and saw at the 
end happiness. 

He attempted to speak of his hopes to 
the marquise. 

“ You know what we have agreed upon,” 
she would say. “Not a word. Already 
does the voice of conscience reproach me 
with my fault in lending my countenance 
to this abomination. To think that I may 
one day have a grand-daughter who calls 
herself Daburon ! I must petition the king, 
my friend, to change this name.” 

If, instead of intoxicating himself with 
dreams of happiness, this acute observer 
had studied the character of his idol, the 
effect might have been to put him upon his 
guard. 

In the mean while, he remarked singular 
alterations in her humor. On certain days, 
she was gay and careless as a child. Then, 
for a week, she would remain sombre and 


dejected. Seeing her in this state the day 
following a ball, to which her grandmother 
had taken her, he dared to ask her the 
reason of her sadness. 

“ Oh ! that,” answered she, heaving a 
deep sigh, “ is my secret, — a secret of 
which even my grandmother knows noth- 
ing.” 

Daburon looked at her. He thought he 
saw a tear between her long eyelashes. 

“ One day,” continued she, “ I may con- 
fide in you : it will be necessary, perhaps.” 

The judge was blind and deaf. 

“ I also,” answered he, “ have a secret, 
which I wish to confide to you in return.” 

When retiring, after midnight, he said to 
himself, “ To-morrow I will confess every 
thing to her.” 

There passed a little more than fifty 
days, during which he kept repeating to 
himself, — 

“ To-morrow ! ” 

One evening in the month of August, — 
th*e heat all day had been overpowering, — 
a breeze had risen. The leaves rustled : 
there were signs of a storm in the atmos- 
phere. 

They were seated together at the bottom 
of the garden, under the arbor, adorned 
with flowers which Claire had planted; 
and, through the branches, they perceived 
the fluttering head-dress of the marquise, 
who was taking her accustomed walk after 
supper. 

They had remained a long time without 
speaking, enjoying the perfume of the flow- 
ers, the calm beauty of the evening. Dabu- 
ron had ventured to take the young girl’s 
hand. 

It was the first time ; and the touch of 
her slender fingers thrilled through every 
fibre of his frame, and drove the blood 
surging to his brain. 

“ Mademoiselle,” stammered he, “ Claire,” 

She stopped him, by turning upon him 
her beautiful eyes, filled with astonish- 
ment. 

“ Pardon me,” continued he, — “ pardon 
me. I have addressed your grandmother, 
before venturing to speak to you. Do you 
not understand me, Claire ? A word from 
your lips decides my future happiness or 
misery. Claire, mademoiselle, I love you ! ” 

While the magistrate was speaking, 
the young girl looked at him as though 
doubtful of the evidence of her senses ; 
but at the words, “ I love you 1 ” pronounced 
with the trembling accents of passion, she 
disengaged her hand rudely, and uttered a 
stifled cry. 

“ You,” murmured she, — “ is this really 
you ? ” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGR 


53 


M. Daburon, at this the most critical mo- 
ment of his life, was powerless to utter a 
word. The presentiment of an immense 
misfortune oppressed his heart. What di- 
vined he, when he saw Claire burst into a 
flood of tears. 

She hid her face between her hands, and 
repeated, — 

“ I am very unhappy, very unhappy ! ” 

‘ You unhappy ? ” cried the magistrate. 
“ And through me, Claire ? You are cruel ! 
In heaven’s name, what have I done ? 
What is the matter ? Speak ! Any thing 
rather than this anxiety, which is killing 
me ! ” 

He knelt before her on the gravelled 
walk, and made an attempt to again take 
her hand. She repulsed him with an im- 
ploring gesture. 

“ Let me weep,” said she ; “ you are go- 
ing to hate me. I feel it. Who knows, to 
despise me, perhaps ? And yet I swear 
before heaven that I was ignorant of what 
you have just said to me, that I had not 
even a suspicion of it ! ” 

Daburon remained upon his knees, await- 
ing his doom. 

“ Yes,” continued Claire, “ you will think 
you have been the victim of a detestable 
coquetry. I see it now ! I comprehend 
every thing ! Is it possible, that, without a 
profound love, a man cannot be all that 
you have been to me ? Alas ! I was de- 
ceived. I gave myself up to the great hap- 
piness of having a friend ! Am I not alone 
in the world, as if lost in a desert ? Mad 
and imprudent, I devoted myself to you 
without reflection, as to the most indulgent 
of fathers.” 

These words revealed to the unfortunate 
judge a complete understanding of his 
error. As a hammer of steel, it smashed 
into a thousand fragments the fragile edi- 
fice of his hopes. He raised himself 
slowly ; and, in a tone of involuntary re- 
proach, he repeated, — 

“ Your father I ” 

The young girl felt how deeply she had 
wounded him ; but she knew not the intense 
depth of his love. 

“ Yes,” she repeated, “ a father ! Seeing 
you, so grave and austere, become for me 
so good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for 
sending me a protector to replace the 
father I have lost.” 

Daburon could not restrain a sob : his 
heart was breaking. 

“ One word,” continued Claire, — “one 
6incrle word, would have enlightened me. 
That word, until to-night, you have never 
ronounced. And with what comfort I 
ave leaned upon you, as an infant upon 


its mother ; with what inward joy ! have 
said to myself, 1 1 am sure of one friend, — 
one heart into which runs the overflow of 
mine.’ Ah ! why was not my confidence 
greater ? Why have I with-held my secret 
from you ? I would have avoided this fear- 
ful calamity. I ought to have long since 
told what I must tell you now. I belong 
not to myself, but to another, to whom I 
have freely and with happiness given my 

To hover in the clouds, and suddenly be 
cast rudely to the earth. The sufferings 
of the judge are not to be described. 

“ Better had I had the courage to speak 
long since,” answered he ; “ yet, no : I owe 
to silence six months of delicious illusions, 

— six months of enchanting dreams. This 
shall be my share of life’s happiness.” 

The last beams of closing day per- 
mitted the magistrate again . to see Mad- 
emoiselle d’ Arlanges. Her beautiful face 
was blanched to a deathlike whiteness, 
and was immovable in its expression as 
marble. Large tears rolled silently down 
her cheeks. Daburon seemed to contemp- 
late the frightful spectacle of a weeping 
statue. 

“ You love another,” said he at length, 

— “ another ? and your grandmother is 
ignorant ? Claire, you cannot have chosen 
a man unworthy of your love? How is 
it your grandmother does not receive 
him ? ” 

“ There are certain obstacles,” murmur- 
ed Claire, — “ obstacles which perhaps we 
may never be able to remove ; but a 
girl like me can love but once. She mar- 
ries him she loves, or she remains with 
heaven ! ” 

“ Certain obstacles,” said M. Daburon in 
a hollow voice. “ You love a man : he 
knows it ; and he meets with obstacles ? ” 

“ I am poor,” answered Mademoiselle 
d’ Arlanges ; “ and his family is immensely 
rich. His father is cruel, inexorable.” 

“ His father,” cried the magistrate, with 
a bitterness he did not dream of hiding, — 
“ his father, his family ; and that with-holds 
him ? You are poor : he is rich ; and that stops 
him, and he knowsyou love him ? Ah ! why am 
I not in his place ; and why have not I against 
me the entire universe V What sacrifice could 
compare with love like mine ? Nay, would 
it be a sacrifice ? What to others might 
appear so, to me would be simply joy. Suffer, 
struggle, wait, so long as hope remains ; 
that is to lov§.” 

“ It is thus I love,” said Claire with sim- 
plicity. 

This answer crushed the judge. He un- 
derstood that for him there was no hope ; 


54 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


but lie felt a terrible enjoyment in plumb- 
ing tlie depth of his misfortune. 

“ But,” insisted he, “ how have you 
known him, spoken to him? Where? 
When ? Madame d’Arlanges receives no 
one.” 

“ I will tell you every thing,” answered 
she in a decided tone. “ It is a long time 
since I have known him. It was at the 
house of one of my grandmother’s friends, 
who was a cousin of his, — old Mademoi- 
selle Goello, — that I saw him for the first 
time. There we first met ; there we meet 
each other now.” 

“ Ah 1” cried Daburon to himself, “ I re- 
member now. A few days before your 
visit to Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayer 
than usual ; and, when you return, you are 
often sad.” 

“ That is because I see how much he is 
pained by the obstacles he cannot over- 
come.” 

“ His family is, then, so illustrious,” said 
he, “ that it disdains alliance with yours?” 

4 You shall know every thing, without 
question, monsieur,” answered Mademoi- 
selle d’Arlanges. “ His name is Albert de 
Commarin.” 

The marquise, at this moment, thinking 
she had walked enough, prepared to regain 
her rose-colored boudoir. She approached 
the arbor. 

“ Incorruptible magistrate ! ” said she, in 
her great voice, “ the table is set for piquet:” 

Mechanically the magistrate arose, stam- 
mering, “ I am coming.” 

Claire held his arm. 

“ I have not asked you to be secret, mon- 
sieur,” said she. 

“ O mademoiselle 1 ” said the judge, 
wounded by this appearance of doubt. 

“ I know,” said Claire, “ that I can count 
upon you ; but, come what will, my tran- 
quillity is lost.” 

Daburon regarded her with an air of 
surprise ; his eye questioned her. 

It is certain,” said she, answering the 
look, “ that what I, a young and inexperi- 
enced girl, have failed to see, has not been 
unnoticed by my grandmother. That she 
has continued to receive you is a tacit en- 
couragement of your addresses; which I 
consider, permit me to say, as very hon- 
orable to me.” 

“ I have already mentioned, Mademoi- 
selle, that the marquise has deigned to au- 
thorize my hopes.” 

And briefly he related his interview with 
Madame d’Arlanges, having the delicacy 
to omit absolutely the question of money, 
which had so strongly influenced the old 
lady. 


“ I see very plainly what effect this will 
have on my peace,” said she sadly, “ when 
she learns that I have not received your 
homage.” 

“ You do not know me, mademoiselle,” 
said he. “ I have nothing to say to the 
marquise. I will retire; and all will be 
concluded.” 

“ Oh ! you are good and generous, I 
know ! ” 

“ I will go away,” pursued Daburon ; “and 
soon you will have forgotten even the name 
of the unfortunate whose life is broken.” 

“ You do not mean what you say ? ” 
asked the young girl quickly. 

“ Well, no. I will flatter myself with a 
hope, that, later, my remembrance will not 
be without pleasure to you. Sometimes you 
will say, ‘ He loved me,’ and think of me 
as a ftiend, — your most devoted friend.” 

Claire, in her turn, took with emotion 
his hands within her own. 

“ Yes,” said she ; “ you must remain my 
friend. Let us forget what has happened, 
— what you have said to-night, — and re- 
main to me, as in the past, the best, the 
most indulgent of brothers.” 

The darkness had come, and she could 
not see him ; but she knew he was weep- 
ing, for he was slow to answer. 

“ Is it possible,” murmured he at length, 
“ that you can ask that ? Do you, who 
talk to me of forgetting, feel the power to 
forget ? Do you not know that I love you 
a thousand times more than you love — ” 

He stopped, unable to pronounce the 
name of Commarin ; and then, with an ef- 
fort, he added, “ and I shall love you al- 
ways.” 

He had left the arbor, and was now on 
the steps of the porch. 

“ And now, mademoiselle, adieu ! You 
will see me again rarely. I shall only re- 
turn often enough to avoid the appearance 
of a rupture.” 

His voice trembled, so that with difficul- 
ty he made it distinct. 

“ Whatever may come in the future,” 
added he, “ remember that there is one in 
the world who belongs to you absolutely. 
If ever you have need of a friend’s devotion, 
come to me, come to your friend Let me 
go. It is over. I have courage, Claire. 
Mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu ! ” 

She was little less dismayed than he was. 
Instinctively she advanced her head ; and 
M. Daburon touched lightly with his cold 
lips, for the first and last time, the forehead ■ 
of her he loved so well. 

They mounted, the steps, she leaning on 
his arm, and entered the rose-colored bou- 
doir where the marquise was seated, impa- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


55 


tiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting 
her victim. 

“ Now, then, incorruptible judge,” cried 
she. 

But Daburon felt sick at heart. He 
could not have held the cards. He stam- 
mered some absurd excuses, spoke of press- 
ing affairs, of duties to be attended to, of 
unexpected news, and went out, clinging 
to the walls. 

His departure made the old cardplayer 
indignant. She turned to her grand-daugh- 
ter, who was endeavoring to hide her con- 
fusion behind the wax candles of the card- 
table, and demanded, — 

“ What has happened to M. Daburon 
this evening ? ” 

“ I do not know, madame, ” stammered 
Claire. 

“It appears .to me, continued the mar- 
quise, “ that the little judge permits himself 
to take singular liberties. He must be re- 
minded of his proper place, or he will finish 
by believing himself our. equal.” 

Claire essayed to justify the magistrate. 

“ He has been complaining all the even- 
ing, grandmamma ; may he not be sick ? ” 

“ What if he should be ? ” exclaimed the 
old lady. “ Is it not his duty to exercise 
some self-denial, in return for the honor of 
our company ? I think I have already re- 
lated to you the story of your granduncle, 
the Duke de St. Iiurluge, who, having at- 
tended the king’s hunting party, on their re- 
turn from the chase lost with the best grace 
in the world two hundred and twenty 
pistoles. All the assembly remarked his 
gaiety and his good humor. The follow- 
ing day it was learned, that, during the 
chase, he had fallen from his horse and 
had sat at his majesty’s card-table with 
a broken rib, rather than mar the en- 
joyment of the company by a com- 
plaint. Nobody made any outcry, so per- 
fectly natural did an act of ordinary polite- 
ness appear in those days. This little 
judge, if he is sick, should have given proof 
of his breeding by saying nothing about it, 
and remaining for my piquet. But he is 
as well as I am. Who can tell what games 
he has gone to play elsewhere ? ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Daburon did not return home on leav- 
ing the Hotel d’ Arlanges. All the night he 
wandered at random, he knew not whither, 
seeking a little coolness for his burning 


head, a little calm for his overloaded and 
bursting heart. 

“ Fool that I was, ” said he to himself. 
“ Thousand times fool to have hoped, to 
have believed, that she would ever love me. 
Insensible 1 how could I have dreamed of 
possessing so much grace, nobleness, and 
beauty ! How charming she was this even- 
ing, when her face was wet with tears. 
Could any thing be more angelic ? What a 
sublime expression her eyes had in speak- 
ing of him ! How she must love him ! 
And I ? She loves me as a father. She 
told me so, — as a father. And could it 
be otherwise ? Is it not justice ? Ought 
she to see a lover in this magistrate, 
sombre and severe, always as sad as his 
black costume? Was it not a crime to 
dream of uniting that virginal simplicity 
to my detestable worldly science? For 
her, the future is yet the land of smiling 
chimeras ; and long since experience has 
dissipated all my illusions. She is as 
young as Innocence : I am as old as Vice.” 

The unfortunate magistrate made himself 
veritably a horror. He understood Claire, 
and he excused her. He even wished he 
could himself suffer the sadness he had 
brought upon her. He reproached himself 
with having cast a shadow upon her life. 
He could not forgive himself for having 
spoken of his love. Ought he not to have 
foreseen what had happened, — that she 
would refuse him, that he ‘would thus de- 
prive himself of the happiness of seeing 
her, of hearing her, of silently adoring 
her ? 

“ A young and romantic girl, ” pursued 
the judge, “ must have a lover she can 
dream ofj — whom she can caress in imagi- 
nation, as an ideal, pleasing herself by 
seeing in him every great and brilliant qual- 
ity, imagining him full of nobleness, of 
bravery, of heroism. What would she see, 
if, in my absence, she dreamed of me ? 
Her imagination would present me dressed 
in a funeral robe, in the depth of a glooniy 
dungeon, engaged with some foul criminal. 
Is it not my trade to descend into all the 
moral sinks, to stir up the foulness of 
crime ? Am I not compelled to wash in se- 
crecy and shadow the foul linen of society ? 
Ah! it is a fatal profession. Am I pun- 
ished thus, because, like the priest, the 
judge should condemn himself to solitude 
and celibacy ? Both know all : they hear 
all, their costumes are nearly the same; 
but, while the priest in the fold of his black 
robe carries consolation, the judge carries 
terror. One is mercy, the other chastise- 
ment. Such are the images awakened ; 
while the other, — the other — ” 


56 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


The wretched man continued his head- 
long course along the deserted quays. 

He went with his head bare, his eyes 
haggard. To breathe more freely, he had 
torn off his cravat and thrown it to the 
winds. 

Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the 
path of a solitary wayfarer, who would 
pause, touched with pity, and turn to watch 
the retreating figure of the unfortunate 
wretch ho thought deprived of reason. 

In a by-road, near Grenelle, some officers 
stopped, and tried to question him. He 
mechanically tendered them his card. They 
read it, and permitted him to pass, con- 
vinced that he was drunk. 

Anger, — a furious anger, began to re- 
place his first feeling of resignation. In 
his heart arose a hate, stronger and more 
violent than even his love for Claire. 

This other, this preferred, this noble vis- 
count, who could not overcome these paltry 
obstacles, oh, that he had him there, un- 
der his knee ! 

At this moment, this noble and proud 
man, this magistrate, so severe and grave, 
felt an irresistible longing for vengeance. 
He began to understand the hate that 
armed itself with the poniard, and lay in 
ambush in dark corners ; which struck in 
the darkness, whether in the face or in the 
back, it mattered little, but which struck, 
which killed, — whose vengeance blood 
alone could satisfy. 

At this very hour, he was charged with 
the conduct of an inquiry into the case of 
an unfortunate young girl, accused of hav- 
ing stabbed one of her wretched companions. 

She was jealous of this woman, who had 
tried to take her lover from her. He was 
a soldier, very fat and very ugly. 

Daburon felt himself seized with pity for 
this miserable creature, whom he had com- 
menced to examine the day previous. 

She was very ugly, — truly repulsive ; but 
the expression of her eyes, when speaking 
of her soldier, returned to the memory of 
the judge. 

“ She loved him veritably,” thought he. 
“ If each one of her jurors could suffer what 
I am suffering now, she would be acquit- 
ted. But how many men have had in their 
lives a passion ? Perhaps not one in 
twenty.” 

He resolved to recommend this girl to 
the indulgence of the tribunal, and extenu- 
ate as much as he could the punishment 
of her crime. 

He had himself resolved upon the com- 
mission of a crime. 

He was resolved to kill Albert de Com- 
marin. 


During the rest of the night, he did but 
confirm himself in this resolution, demon- 
strating by a thousand mad reasons, which 
he found solid and inscrutable, the neces- 
sity for another legitimacy of this ven- 
geance. 

At seven o’clock in the morning, ho 
found himself in an alley of the Bois de 
Boulogne, not far from the lake. He 
gained the Maillot gate, called a carriage, 
and was driven to his house. 

The delirium of the night continued, but 
without suffering. He was conscious of no> 
fatigue, — calm and cool apparently, but 
under the empire of an hallucination, — in 
a state approaching somnambulism. 

He reflected and reasoned, but without 
reason. 

He dressed himself with care, as was his 
custom formerly when visiting the Mar- 
quise d’Arlanges, and went out. 

He first called at an armorers, and 
bought a small revolver, which he caused 
to be carefully loaded under his own eyes, 
and put into his pocket. He threw him- 
self in the way of persons he supposed 
capable of informing him to what club the 
viscount belonged. No one perceived the 
strange situation of his mind, so natural 
were his manners and conversation. 

It was not until the afternoon he found a 
young friend, a member of Albert de Com- 
marin’s club, who offered to conduct him 
thither, and present him. 

Daburon accepted warmly, and accom- 
panied his friend. 

While passing along, he grasped with 
frenzy the handle of the revolver which 
he kept concealed, thinking only of the 
murder he determined to commit, and the 
means of insuring the accuracy of his 
aim. 

“ This will make,” thought lie,.“ a terri- 
ble scandal ; above all, if I do not succeed. 
Well, if I fail, I shall go mad. They will 
arrest me, — throw me into prison. I shall 
be placed upon trial at the court of assize, 
my name dishonored! Bast! what doe3 
that import to me ? I am not loved by 
Claire. What to me is all the rest ? My 
father without doubt will die of grief; but 
I must be revenged ! ” 

Arrived at the club, his friend pointed 
out to him a very distinguished looking 
young man, of a brown complexion, with a 
haughty air, or what appeared so to him, 
who, seated at a table, was reading a review. 
It was the viscount. 

Daburon marched upon him without 
drawing his revolver. Arrived within two 
paces, his heart failed him : he turned sud- 
denly and fled, leaving his friend aston- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


57 


ished at a scene, to him utterly inexplica- 
ble. 

Albert de Commarin will be as near 
death but once again. 

When he reached the street, Daburon 
felt the ground flying beneath his feet, — 
every thing turning around him. He tried, 
but was unable to cry out : he struck at 
the air with his hands, reeled an instant, 
and then fell helpless on the pavement. 

The passers by ran and assisted the 
police to raise him. In one of his pockets 
they found hi3 address, and carried him to 
his house. When he recovered his senses, 
he lay upon his bed, at the foot of which he 
perceived his father. 

“ What has taken place ? ” he asked. 
With much caution they told him, that for 
six weeks he had wavered between life and 
death. The doctors had declared his life 
saved ; and, now that reason was restored, 
all would go well. 

Five minutes’ conversation exhausted 
him. He shut his eyes, and tried to col- 
lect his ideas ; but they whirled hither and 
thither wildly, as autumn leaves in the 
wind. The past seemed shrouded in a 
dark mist ; yet, in the midst of all the dark- 
ness and confusion, the memory of his 
scene with Mademoiselle d’Arlanges stood 
out before his mental vision clear and lu- 
minous. All his actions up to the moment 
when he embraced Claire were marked, as 
in a picture strongly drawn. He trembled ; 
and his hair was in a moment damp with 
perspiration. 

He had failed to become an assassin. 

The proof that he was restored to full 
possession of his faculties was, that a ques- 
tion of criminal law crossed his brain. 

“ The crime committed,” said he to him- 
self, “ should I have been condemned ? 
Yes. Was I responsible? No. Would 
an action committed in a state of mental 
alienation be a crime? Was I mad? Or 
was I in a peculiar state of mind which 
always precedes an illegal attempt ? Who 
can answer? Why have not all judges 
passed through an incomprehensible crisis 
such as mine? Who would believe me, 
were I to recount my experience ? ” 

Some days later, he was sufficiently re- 
covered to tell his father all. The old 
gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and as- 
sured him it was but a reminiscence of his 
delirium. 

The good old man was moved at the 
story of his son’s luckless wooing, without 
seeing therein an irreparable misfortune. 
He advised him to think of something else, 
placed at his disposal his entire fortune, 
and recommended him to marry a stout 


Poitevine heiress, very pretty and good 
humored, who would make him an excel- 
lent wife. Then, as his farm was suffering 
by his absence, he returned to his province. 
Two months later, the judge of inquiry 
had resumed his ordinary avocations. But 
it was hard work. He went through his 
duties like a body without a soul. He felt 
that his heart was broken. 

Once he ventured to pay a visit to his 
old friend, the marquise. On seeing him, 
she uttered a cry of terror. She took him 
for a spectre, so much was he changed in 
appearance. 

As she dreaded dismal figures, she shut 
herself from him in the future. 

Claire was sick for a week after seeing 
him. “How he loved me 1” thought she. 

“ He has almost died for me ! Does Albert 
love me as much ? ” 

She did not dare to answer herself. She 
felt a desire to console him, to speak to him, 
attempt something ; but he came no more. 

Daburon was not, however, a man to be 
overthrown without a struggle. He tried, 
as his father advised him, to distract his 
thoughts. He sought for pleasure, and found 
disgust, but not forgetfulness. Often he 
went so far as the threshold of dissipation ; 
always the pure figure of Claire, dressed 
in white garments, barred the doors 
against him. 

Then he took refuge in work, as in a 
sanctuary ; condemned himself to the most 
incessant labor, forbade himself to think of 
Claire, as the consumptive forbids himself 
to recollect his malady. 

His asperity in his labor, his feverish 
activity, was worth the reputation of an 
ambitious man ; but he took no real inter- 
est in any thing. 

At length, though he found not rest, this 
engrossing occupation exempted him from 
the sorrow which commonly follows a great 
catastrophe. The convalescence of obliv- 
ion commenced. 

These were the events, recalled to Dabu- 
ron by Pere Tabaret, in pronouncing the 
name of Commarin. He believed them 
buried under the ashes of time ; and behold 
they came up, as those characters traced 
in sympathetic ink appear when held before 
a fire, on paper apparently blank. In an 
instant they unrolled themselves before 
his memory, with the instantaneousness of 
a dream, annihilating time and space. 

During some minutes, he assisted at the 
representation of his own life. At once 
actor and spectator, he was there seated in 
his arm-chair ; and he appeared to himself 
as in a theatre. He acted, and he judged 
himself. 


58 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


His first thought, it must be confessed, 
was one of hate, followed by a detestable 
sentiment of satisfaction. Chance had 
delivered to him this man preferred by 
Claire, — this man no longer a haughty 
gentleman, illustrious by his fortune and 
his ancestors, but an illegitimate off- 
spring of a femme convert. To guard a 
stolen name, he had committed a most 
cowardly assassination. And he, the judge, 
was to experience the infinite gratification 
of striking his enemy with the sword of 
justice. 

But this was only, a passing thought. 
The conscience of the man revolted against 
it, and made its powerful voice heard above 
the whispers of selfishness. 

“ Is any thing,” it cried, “ more monstrous 
than the association of these two ideas, — 
hatred and justice? A judge. Can he, 
without despising himself more than the 
vile beings he condemns, remind himself 
that a criminal whose fate is in his hands 
has been his enemy? A judge of inquiry. 
Has he a right to sit in judgment on a man 
against whom he harbors in his heart one 
drop of gall ? ” 

Daburon repeated to himself many times 
during the year, on commencing an 
inquiry, — 

“ And I also, — I almost stained myself 
with dreadful murder ! ^ 

And now observe what he was about to 
do, — to arrest, interrogate, and hand over 
to the court of assize the man he had once 
the firm determination to kill. 

All the world, it is true, ignores the 
crime of thought and intention ; but could 
he himself forget it ? Was not this, of all 
others, a case to except against, to give his 
resignation ? Ought he not to withdraw, 
and wash his hands of bloodshed, leaving 
to another the care of avenging society ? 

“ No,” said he, “ it would be a cowardice 
unworthy of me.” 

A project of mad generosity came to him. 
“If I save him,” murmured he, “ if for 
sake of Claire I leave him his honor and 
his life, — but how can I save him ? — I 
shall be obliged to suppress Pere Tabaret’s 
testimony, and impose upon him the com- 
plicity of silence. It will be necessary to 
make him voluntarily take a false road, 
and run with Gevrol after a chimerical mur- 
derer. Is this practicable ? On the other 
hand, to spare Albert is to defame Noel ; 
it is to assure impunity to the most odious 
of crimes. In fine, it is to sacrifice human 
justice to human feeling.” 

The magistrate suffered. 

How to choose a path in the midst of so 
many perplexities 1 Dragged each way by 


different interests, he wavered, undecided, 
between determinations the most opposite, 
his mind oscillating from one extreme to 
the other. 

What to do ? His reason after this new 
and unforeseen shock vainly sought to re- 
gain its equilibrium. 

“ Retreat ? ” said he to himself. “ Where, 
then, is my courage ? Ought I not rather 
to remain the representative of the law, 
incapable of emotion, insensible to preju- 
dice ? Am I so feeble that, in assuming 
my r61e, I am unable to divest myself of 
my personality ? Can I not, for the pres- 
ent, make abstraction of the past? My 
duty is to pursue this inquiry. Claire hew 
self would order me to act thus. Would 
she desire to wed a man soiled by suspicion 
of a crime ? Never. For Claire’s sake, 
then, I will go on ; that, if innocent, he may 
be restored to her, and, if guilty, she may be 
delivered from all further contact with a 
man so unworthy of her pure affection.” 

This was very strong reasoning ; but, at 
the bottom of his heart, a thousand disquie- 
tudes darted their thorns. He wanted 
something more to reassure him. 

“ Do I still hate this young man ? ” he 
continued. “No, certainly. If Claire has 
preferred him to me, it is to Claire and not 
him I owe my suffering. My fury was no 
more than a passing fit of delirium. I 
will prove it, by letting him find in me as 
much of counsellor as judge. If he is not 
guilty, he will dispose of all this formidable 
array of evidence, placed by Pere Tabaret 
in the hands of justice, by establishing 
counter-proofs of his innocence. Yes, I am 
able to be his judge. Heaven, who reads 
the thoughts of all hearts, sees that- 1 love 
Claire enough to wish with all tny heart 
the innocence of her lover.” 


At this moment, M. Daburon remembered 
vaguely the lapse of time. 

It was nearly three o’clock in the morn- 


ing. 

“ Goodness ! ” cried he, “ and Pere 
Tabaret is waiting for me. I shall find 
him asleep.” 

But Pere Tabaret was not asleep. He 
had felt the passage of time no more than 
the judge. 

Ten minutes had sufficed him to take an 
inventory of the contents of Daburon’s 
study ; which was large, and of a severe 
magnificence,, altogether in accordance 
with the position and large fortune of the 
magistrate. Armed with a lamp, he ap- 
proached six very handsome pictures, which 
broke the monotony of the wainscoting-, 
and admired them. He examined curious- 
ly some rare bronzes, placed upon the chim- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


59 


ney-piece, and a console. He gave the 
bookcase the glance of a connoisseur. 

After which, taking an evening paper 
from the table, he approached the hearth, 
and plunged into a vast arm-chair. 

He had not read the third part of the 
leading article, — which, like all the leading 
articles of the time, interested itself exclu” 
sively with the Roman question, — when, 
letting the paper drop from his hands, he 
became absorbed in meditation. The fixed 
idea, stronger than his will, and more in- 
teresting to him than politics, carried him 
to Jonchere, where lay the murdered Widow 
Lerouge. Like the child who builds up and 
throws down again and again his house of 
cards, he re-arranged and scattered alter- 
nately his series of inductions and evi- 
dence. 

Certainly there was nothing doubtful or 
questionable in the evidence. From A to 
Z, he knew all. He knew what his own 
impressions had been, on hearing Noel’s rev- 
elations ; and Daburon, he saw, shared his 
opinions. What difficulty remained ? 

There is between the judge of inquiry 
and the accused a supreme tribunal, — an 
admirable institution, a powerful moder- 
ator, — the jury. 

The jury, thank heaven 1 does not content 
itself with a moral conviction. The stron- 
gest probabilities cannot draw from them 
an affirmative verdict. 

Placed upon a neutral ground, between 
the prosecution and the defence, it de- 
mands material and tangible proofs. Where 
the magistrate would condemn twenty times 
for one, in all security of conscience, the 
jury acquit for lack of satisfying evi- 
dence. 

The deplorable execution of Lesurques 
has certainly assured impunity to many crim- 
inals ; but, it is necessary to say, it justifies 
hesitation in receiving circumstantial evi- 
dence in capital crimes. 

In short, save where a criminal is taken 
in the very act, or confesses his guilt, it is 
not certain that the minister of justice can 
secure a conviction. Sometimes the judge 
of inquiry is as anxious as the accused 
himself. Nearly all crimes are in some 
particular point mysterious, perhaps impen- 
etrable to justice and the police ; and the 
duty of the advocate is, to discover this 
weak point, and thereon establish his client’s 
defence. By pointing out this doubt to the 
jury, he insinuates in their minds a distrust 
of the entire evidence; and frequently the 
detection of a distorted induction, cleverly 
exposed, can change the face of a prosecu- 
tion, and make a strong case appear to the 
jury a weak one. This uncertainty ex- 1 


plains the character of passion which is so 
often perceptible in criminal trials. 

And, in proportion to the march of civili- 
zation, juries in important trials will become 
more timid and hesitating. The weight of 
responsibility oppresses the man of conscien- 
tious scruple. Already numbers recoil from 
the idea of capital punishment ; and, when- 
ever a jury can find a peg to hang a doubt 
on, they will wash their hands of the re- 
sponsibility of condemnation. We have 
seen numbers of persons signing appeals for 
mercy to a condemned malefactor, con- 
demned for what crime? Parracide ! Every 
juror, from the moment he is sworn, weighs 
infinitely less the evidence he has come to 
listen to than the risk he runs of incurring 
the pangs of remorse. Rather than risk 
the condemnation of one innocent man, he 
will allow twenty scoundrels to go unpun- 
ished. 

The accusation must, then, come before 
the jury, armed at all points, with both 
hands full of proofs. A task often tedious 
to the judge of inquiry, and bristling with 
difficulties, is the arrangement and con- 
densation of this evidence, particularly 
when the accused is a miscreant of strength 
and coolness, certain of having left no 
traces of his guilt. Then, from the depths 
of his dungeon he defies the assault of 
justice, and laughs at the judge of inquiry. 
It is a terrible struggle, enough to make 
one tremble at the responsibility of the 
magistrate, when he remembers, that, after 
all, this man imprisoned, without consola- 
tion or advice, may be innocent. How hard 
is it, then, for the judge to resist his moral 
convictions ! 

Even when presumptive evidence points 
clearly to the criminal, and common sense 
recognizes him, Justice is at times com- 
pelled to acknowledge her defeat, for lack 
of what the jury consider sufficient proof of 
guilt. 

Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape pun- 
ishment. An old advocate-general one day 
confessed that he knew as many as three 
assassins, living rich, happy, and re- 
spected, who, unless from sortie improbable 
accidents, would end by dying in there 
beds, surrounded by their families, being 
followed to the grave with lamentations, 
and praised for there virtues in there epi- 
taphs. 

At the idea that a murderer should escape 
the penalty of his crime, steal himself away 
from the very court of assize, Pere Ta- 
baret’s blood fairly boiled in his veins, 
as at the recollection of a cruel personal in- 
jury. 

I Such a monstrous event, in his opinion, 


60 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


could only proceed from the incapacity of 
the magistrates charged with the prosecu- 
tion, the maladdress of the police, or the 
stupidity of the judge of inquiry. 

“ It is not I,” he muttered, with the satis- 
fied vanity of success, “ who ever let my 
prey escape. No crime can be committed, 
of which the author cannot be found, unless 
he happens to be a madman; in which 
event, his escape is reasonable. I would 
pass my life in pursuit of a criminal, before 
avowing myself vanquished, as this Gevrol 
has done so many times.”' 

This time again, Pere Tabaret, assisted 
by chance, had succeeded, he repeated to 
himself; but what proofs of innocence would 
the defence present to this accursed jury, — 
this jury, so difficult to convince, so formal 
and so cowardly? Who could imagine 
what means might not be found by a 
strong man, perfectly on his guard, cov- 
ered by his position, and without doubt 
by cunning precautions? What trap had 
he prepared V To what new and infallible 
stratagem had he had recourse ? 

The amateur detective 'exhausted him- 
self in subtle but impracticable combina- 
tions, always stopped by this fatal jury, so 
obnoxious to the chevaliers of the Rue 
Jerusalem. 

He was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts 
that he did not hear the door open, and con- 
tinued his reflections unconscious of the 
judge’s presence. 

Daburon’s voice aroused him from his 
reverie. 

“You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for 
having left you so long alone.” 

The old fellow rose and made a respect- 
ful salutation at an angle of forty-five de- 
grees. 

“ By my faith, monsieur,” replied he, “ I 
have not had the leisure to perceive my sol- 
itude.” 

Daburon crossed the room, and seated 
himself, facing his agent before a small ta- 
ble encumbered with papers and documents 
relating to the crime. He appeared very 
much fatigued. 

“ I have reflected a good deal,” he com- 
menced, “ on all this affair — ” 

“ And I,” interrupted Pere Tabaret, “ was 
just asking myself, monsieur, what was 
likely to be the attitude assumed by the 
viscount at the moment of his arrest. 
Nothing is more important, according to my 
theory, than his manner of conducting 
himself then. Will he attempt to intimi- 
date the agents ? Will he threaten them 
with expulsion from the house? These 
are generally the tactics of titled criminals. 
My opinion, however, is, that he will re- 


main perfectly cool. This conclusion is 
logical. It is the character of the perpe- 
trator of the crime to treat the ministers 
of justice with a superb assurance. He 
will declare himself the victim of a misun- 
derstanding, and insist upon an immediate 
interview with the judge of inquiry. Once 
that is accorded to him, he will finish by 
explaining every thing very quickly.” 

The old fellow spoke of matters of spec- 
ulation in such a tone of assurance that 
Daburon was unable to repress a smiie. 

“ We have not got as far as that yet,’ r 
said he. 

“ But we shall, in some hours,” replied 
Tabaret quickly. “ I presume you will or- 
der the criminal’s arrest at daybreak.” 

The judge trembled, as the patient who 
sees the surgeon on entering deposit his 
case of instruments upon the table. 

The moment for action had come. He 
felt now what a distance lies between a 
mental decision and the physical action re- 
sulting therefrom. 

“ You are prompt, M. Tabaret,” said he ; 
“you recognize no obstacles.” 

“ None, having ascertained the criminal. 
Who else can have committed this assassi- 
nation ? Who but he had an interest in 
silencing the Widow Lerouge, in suppress- 
ing her testimony, in destroying her pa- 
pers ? Poor Noel 1 who is as dull as hones- 
ty, has been forestalled by this wretch, who 
stops at nothing. Noel has instituted pro- 
ceedings to recover his title and estates. 
Should the guilt of the assassin fail to be 
established, he will remain de Commarin 
more than ever ; and my young advocate 
will be Noel Gerdy to the grave.” 

“Yes, but — ” 

The amateur fixed upon the judge a look 
of astonishment. 

“ You see, then, some difficulties, mon- 
sieur ? ” he demanded. 

“ Without doubt ! ” replied Daburon. 

“ This is a matter demanding the utmost 
circumspection. In cases like the present, 
we must not strike until the blow is sure ; 
and we have but presumptions. We must 
not deceive ourselves. Justice, unhappily, 
cannot repair her errors. Her hand once 
placed upon a man, even if unjustly, leaves 
an imprint of dishonor that can never be 
effaced. She may perceive her error, and 
proclaim it aloud; but in vain. Public 
opinion, — absurd, idiotic opinion, — par- 
dons not the man guilty of the crime of be- 
ing suspected.” 

It was with a sinking heart the old fel- 
low heard these remarks. He would not 
be the man to be with-held by such mean 
considerations. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


61 


“ Our suspicions are well grounded,” 
continued the judge. “But, should they 
lead us into error, our precipitation would 
be a terrible misfortune for this young 
man, to say nothing of the effect it would 
have in abridging the authority and digni- 
ty of Justice, of weakening the respect 
which constitutes her power. Such a mis- 
take would call for discussion, provoke ex- 
amination, and awaken distrust, at an 
epoch in our history when all minds are 
but too much disposed to defy the consti- 
tuted authorities.” 

He leaned upon the table, and appeared 
to reflect profoundly. 

“ No chance,” thought Pere Tabaret. 
“ I have to do with a trembler. When he 
should act, he makes speeches ; instead of 
signing mandates, he propounds theories. 
He is stunned by my discovery, and is not 
equal to the situation. Instead of being 
delighted by my appearance with the news 
of our success, he would have given a 
louis, I dare say, to have been left to/ 
slumber undisturbed in thick ignorance. 
Ah ! he would very willingly have the 
little fishes in his net ; but the big ones 
frighten him : the big fish are dangerous ; 
and he lets them swim away.” 

“Perhaps,” said Daburon in a loud 
tone, “ it will suffice to issue a mandate of 
inquiry, and another of requisition for the 
appearance of the accused.” 

“ Then all is. lost 1 ” cried Pere Tabaret. 

“ And why, if you please ? ” 

“ Monsieur, we are opposed by a crimi- 
nal of marked ability. The crime has 
been executed with the most subtle pre- 
meditation. A most providential accident 
alone, almost a miracle, has placed us upon 
the track of discovery. If we give him 
time to breathe, he will escape.” 

The only answer was an inclination of 
the head ; which Daburon might have 
intended for a sign of assent. 

“ It is evident,” continued the old fel- 
low, “ that our adversary has foreseen 
every thing, absolutely every thing, except 
the possibility of suspicion attaching to 
one in his high position. Oh ! his precau- 
tions are all taken. If you are satisfied 
with demanding his appearance, he is 
saved. He will enter your cabinet of in- 
quiry as tranquilly as your clerk, as uncon- 
cerned as if he came to arrange the pre- 
liminaries of a duel. He will present you 
with a magnificent alibi, an alibi that can- 
not be gainsayed. He will show you that 
he passed the evening and the night of 
Tuesday with personages of the highest 
rank. He has dined with the Count de 
Machin, gamed with the Marquis of so 


and so, and supped with the duke of 
what’s his name. The baroness of this 
and the vicountess of that have not lost 
sight of him for a minute. In short, his 
little machine will be so cleverly ’con- 
structed, so nicely arranged, all its little 
wheels will play so well, that there will be 
nothing left for you but to open the door 
and usher him out with the most humble 
apologies. The only means of securing 
conviction is to surprise the miscreant by 
a rapidity against which it is impossible 
he can be on guard. Fall upon him like a 
thunderclap, arrest him as he awakes, drag 
him hither while yet pale with astonish- 
ment, and interrogate at once.” 

Pere Tabaret stopped short, frightened 
at the idea that he had been wanting in 
respect; but Daburon showed no sign of 
being offended. 

“ Proceed,” said he, in a tone of encour- 
agement, “ proceed.” 

)✓*“ Then,” continued the old fellow, “ I am 
lb*judge of inquiry. I cause my man to be 
arrested ; and, twenty minutes later, he is 
standing before me. I do not amuse my- 
self by putting questions to him, more or 
less subtle. No, I go right to the mark. 
I overwhelm him at once by the weight of 
my certainty, prove to him so clearly that 
I know every thing, that he must surrender, 
seeing no chance of escape. I should say 
to him, ‘ My good man, you bring me an 
alibi ; it is very well : but we are acquainted 
with this system of defence. It will not do 
with me. Of course I understand you have 
been elsewhere at the hour of the crime ; 
an hundred persons have never lost sight 
of you : it is all admitted. In the mean 
time, here is what you have done. At 
twenty minutes after eight, you slipped 
away adroitly ; at thirty-five minutes past 
eight, you took the train at Rue St. Lazare ; 
at nine o’clock, you descended at the station 
at Rueil, and took the road to Jonchere ; at 
a quarter past nine, you knocked at the win- 
dow-shutter of the Widow Lerouge’s cot- 
tage. You were admitted. You asked for 
something to eat, and, above all, something to 
drink. At twenty minutes past nine, you 
planted the end of a foil, well-sharpened, be- 
tween her shoulders. You killed her ! You 
then overturned every thing i n the house, and 
burned certain papers of importance ; after 
which, you tied in a napkin all the valua- 
bles you could find, and carried them off, to 
lead the police to believe the murder was 
the work of a robber. You locked the 
door, and threw away the key. 

“ ‘ Arrived at the Seine, you threw the 
bundle into the water, and then regained 
the railway station on foot ; and, at eleven 


62 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


o’clock, you re- appeared in the company, 
where your absence was unnoticed. Your 
game was well played ; but you omitted to 
provide against two adversaries, an agent 
of po.lice, not easily deceived, named Tirau- 
claire, and another still more capable, 
named chance. 

“ ‘ Between the two, they have made you 
lose the game. Moreover, you were wrong 
to wear fine boots, and to keep on your pearl 
gray gloves, besides embarrassing yourself 
with a silk hat and an umbrella. Now 
confess your guilt, and save the trouble of 
a trial ; and I will give you permission to 
smoke in your dungeon some of those tra- 
bucos you are so fond of, and which you 
smoke always with an amber mouthpiece.’ ” 

During this speech, delivered with extra- 
ordinary volubility, Pere Tabaret had 
gained a couple of inches in height, so 
great was his enthusiasm. He looked at 
the magistrate, as if requesting a smile of 
approval. 

“ Yes,” continued he, after taking 
breath, “ I would say this, and nothing else ; 
and, unless this man is a hundred times 
stronger than I suppose him to be, unless 
he is made of bronze, of marble, or of steel, 
he would fall at my feet and avow his 
guilt.” 

“ And then if he were of bronze,” said 
Daburon, “ and did not fall at your feet, 
what would you do next ? ” 

The question evidently embarrassed the 
old fellow. 

“ Pshaw 1 ” stammered he ; “I don’t 
know ; I should see. I would search. But 
he would confess.” 

After a prolonged silence, Daburon took 
a pen, and wrote in haste, — 

“ I surrender,” said he. “ M. Albert de 
Commarin shall be arrested. It is decided ; 
but the formalities and inquiries will occu- 
py some time, which I wish to use by first 
interrogating the Count de Commarin, the 
young man’s father, and this young advo- 
cate, your friend M. Noel Gerdy, also, in 
examination of the letters of which you 
speak ; they are indispensable to me.” 

At the name of Gerdy, Pere Tabaret’s 
face assumed a most comical expression of 
uneasiness. 

“ Confound it,” cried he, “ the very 
thing I have most dreaded.” 

What ? ” demanded Daburon. 

“ The necessity for the examination of 
those letters. Noel will discover my inter- 
ference. He will despise me : he will fly 
from me, when he knows that Tabaret and 
Tirauclaire sleeps in the same nightcap. 
Before eight days, my oldest friends will 
refuse to take my hand, as if it were not an 


honor to serve justice. I shall be obliged 
to change my residence, and assume a 
false name.” 

He almost wept, so great was his annoy- 
ance. Daburon was touched. 

“ Reassure yourself, my dear Tabaret,” 
said he. “ I will manage that your adopted 
son, your Benjamin, shall know nothing. 
I shall lead him to believe I have reached 
him by means of the widow’s papers.” 

The old fellow seized the judge’s hand 
in a transport of gratitude, and carried it 
to his lips. 

“ Oh ! thanks, monsieur, a thousand 
thanks 1 I beg to be permitted to witness 
the arrest ; and I shall be glad to assist at 
the examination.” 

“ I expected you would ask it, M. Taba- 
ret,” answered the judge. 

The lamps paled in the gray dawn of 
the morning ; the rumbling of vehicles was 
heard in the distance : Paris was awaking. 

“ I have no time to lose,” continued 
Daburon, “ if I would have all my measures 
well taken. I must at once see the pro- 
curer imperial, awake him, if necessary. I 
will go from his house directly to the pal- 
ace of justice. I shall be in my cabinet 
before eight o’clock; and I desire, M. 
Tabaret, you will there await my orders.” 

The magistrate’s servant appeared. 

“ A note, monsieur,” said he, “ brought 
by a gendarme from Bougival. He waits 
an answer.” 

“ Very well,” replied Daburon. “ Ask 
the man to have some refreshment ; at 
least offer him a glass of wine.” 

He opened the envelope. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried, “ a letter from Gevrol ; ” 
and he read, — 

“ ‘ To the Judge of Inquiry, — 

“ ‘ I have the honor to inform you, that I 
am on the track of the man of the ear-rino-s. 
I heard of him at a wine shop, which he 
entered on Sunday morning, before going 
to the Widow Lerouge’s cottage. He 
drank, and paid for two litres of wine; 
then, suddenly striking his forehead, he 
cried, “ Old stupid ! to forget that to-mor- 
row is the boat’s fete day 1 ” and demanded 
another litre of wine. I consulted the 
almanac ; it was the fete of St. Martin,, 
which I therefore take to be the name of 
the boat. I have also learned that she was 
laden with grtiin. I write to the prefecture 
at the same time as I write to you, that 
inquiries may be made at Paris and Rouen. 
He must be found at one of these places. 

“ ‘ I am in waiting, monsieur, &c. ’ ” 

“ Poor Gevrol ! ” cried Pere Tabaret, 
bursting with laughter. “He sharpens 
his sabre, and the battle is over. Are you 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE, 


63 


not going to put a stop to his researches, 
monsieur? ” 

“ No ; certainly not,” answered Daburon ; 
“ to neglect the slightest clew might lead 
to error. Who can tell what light we may 
receive from this old mariner with the 
rings in his ears ? ” 


CHAPTER VIH. 

On the same day that the crime of Jon- 
chere was discovered, and precisely at the 
hour when Pere Tabaret made his memora- 
ble examination in the victim’s chamber, 
the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered 
a carriage, and proceeded to the Gate du 
Nord, to meet his father. 

The young man was very pale, his 
features pinched, his eyes dull, his lips 
blanched, his whole appearance denoting 
either overwhelming fatigue or unusual 
sorrow. 

All the servants had observed, that, dur- 
ing the past five days, their young master was 
not in his ordinary condition : he spoke 
with effort, eat almost nothing, and forbade 
the admission of visitors. 

His valet remarked that this singular al- 
teration dated from the visit, on Sunday 
morning, of a certain M. Noel Gerdy, advo- 
cate, who had been closeted with him for 
three hours in the library. 

The viscount, gay as a lark until the 
arrival of this person, had, from the moment 
of his departure, the appearance of a man 
at the point of death, or filled with remorse 
for the commission of a terrible crime. 

At the moment of setting forth to meet 
his father, the viscount appeared to suffer 
so acutely that Lubin, his valet, entreated 
him not to expose himself to the cold ; it 
would be more prudent to retire to his room, 
and call in the doctor. 

But the Count de Commarin, his son 
knew, was exacting on the score of filial 
duty, and would overlook the worst of 
youthful indiscretions sooner than what he 
termed a want of reverence. He had an- 
nounced his intended arrival by telegraph, 
twenty-four hours in advance; therefore 
the house was expected to be in perfect 
readiness to receive him : and the absence 
of Albert at the railway station would have 
been resented as a flagrant omission of 
duty. 

The viscount had been but five minutes 
in the waiting room, when the bell an- 
nounced the arrival of the train. Soon the 
doors leading to the platform were opened, 
and the depot became filled with travellers. 


The throng beginning to thin a little, the 
count appeared, followed by a servant, who 
carried a travelling pelisse lined with ex- 
pensive fur. 

The Count de Commarin looked a good 
ten years less than his age. His beard 
and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely 
grey. He was tall and muscular, held 
himself upright, and carried his head 
high, — all this without any of the ungra- 
cious British manner, so much affected by 
our young men of the present day. His 
appearance was noble, his movements easy. 
His hands were strong and handsome, — 
the hands of a man whose ancestors have 
been for centuries familiar with swordhilts. 
His regular features presented a study to 
the physiognomist, all expressing easy, care- 
less good nature, even to the handsome, smil- 
ing mouth ; except his eyes, in whose clear 
depths flashed the fiercest, most arrogant 
pride. This contrast revealed the secret 
of his character. Imbued quite as deeply 
with aristocratic prejudice as the Marquise 
d’ Arlanges, he had progressed with his 
century, or at least appeared to have done 
so. As fully as the marquise, he held in 
contempt all who were not noble ; but his 
disdain expressed itself in different fashion. 
The marquise proclaimed her contempt 
loudly and coarsely ; the count dissimu- 
lated, beneath an excess of politeness hu- 
miliating to its object, a feeling of disgust 
equally excessive. The marquise will- 
ingly admitted her tradespeople to familiar 
conversation. The count, one day when 
his architect let fall his umbrella, picked it 
up and returned it to him. The marquise 
had lived with her eyes bandaged, her ears 
closed ; the count had kept eyes and ears 
open and had seen and heard a good deal. 
She was stupid, arid without the protection 
of common sense. He was witty and sensi- 
ble, and possessed enlarged views of life and 
politics. She dreamed of the return of the 
absurd traditions of a former age, and the 
restoration of effete monarchies, imagining 
that the years could be turned back like 
the hands of a clock. He hoped for things 
within the power of events to bring forth. 
For example, he was sincerely persuaded 
the nobles of France would yet recover 
slowly and silently, but surely, all their 
lost power, with its prestige and influence. 

But, in the end, they belonged to the 
same order. They were both aristocrats. 
The count was a flattered portrait of his 
class ; the marquise its caricature. 

It should be added, that M. de Com- 
marin knew how to divest himself of 
his crushing urbanity in the company of 
his equals. There he recovered his true 


64 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


character, — haughty, self-sufficient, and 
intractable, enduring contradiction pretty 
much as a wild horse the application of the 
spur. 

In his own house, he was a despot. 

Perceiving his father, Albert advanced, 
and embraced him with an air equally 
noble and ceremonious, and, in less than a 
minute, had expressed in well-chosen 
phrase all the news that had transpired 
during his absence, and the compliments 
of the journey. 

Then only M. de Commarin perceived 
the so visible alteration in his son’s face. 

“ You are not well, viscount ? ” asked 

he. 

“ Oh, yes, monsieur I ” answered Albert, 
dryly. 

The count gave an “ Ah 1 ” accompanied 
by a certain movement of the head — a 
habitual trick with him, expressing perfect 
incredulity ; then, turning to his servant, he 
gave him some orders briefly. 

“ Now,” resumed he, “ let us go quickly 
to the house. I am in haste to feel at home ; 
and I am hungry, having had nothing 
to-day but some detestable bouillon, at I 
know not what way station.” 

M. de Commarin arrived in Paris in very 
ill-humor : his journey into Austria had not 
brought the results lie hoped for. 

To crown his dissatisfaction, he had 
rested, on his homeward way, at the house 
of an old friend, with whom he had so vio- 
lent a discussion that they parted without 
shaking hands. 

The count was hardly seated in his car- 
riage, which started at a gallop, before he 
entered upon the subject of this disagree- 
ment. 

“ I have quarrelled with the Duke de 
Sairmeuse,” said he. 

“ That seems to me to happen when- 
ever you meet,” answered Albert, without 
intending any raillery. 

“ True,” said the count ; “ but this is 
serious. I passed four days at his country- 
seat, in a state* of inconceivable exaspera- 
tion. He has been guilty of an act which 
lowers him in my estimation beyond re- 
covery ! Sairmeuse has sold his estate of 
Gondresy, — one of the finest in the north 
of France. He cut down the timber, and 
put up to auction the old chateau, — a 
princely dwelling, now to be converted into 
a sugar refinery ; all this for the purpose, 
as he says, of raising money to meet some 
legal obligations, — debts or settlements, 
or something of that kind ! ” 

“ And was that the cause of your rup- 
ture ? ” inquired Albert, without much sur- 
prise. 


“ Certainly it was ? Do you not think 
it a sufficient one? ” 

“ But, monsieur, you know the duke has 
a large family, and is far from rich.” 

“ What matters that ? A noble of France 
who sells his land commits an unworthy 
act. He is guilty of treason against his 
order ! ” 

“ O monsieur I ” said Albert, depreca- 
tingly. 

“ I said treason 1 ” continued the count. 
“ I maintain the position. Remember well, 
viscount, the power has been, and always 
will be, on the side of wealth, — the strong- 
est right with those who hold the soil. 
The men of ’93 well understood this prin- 
ciple, and acted upon it. By impoverish- 
ing the nobility, they destroyed their pres- 
tige more effectually than by abolishing 
their titles. A prince dismounted, and 
without retinue, — that is, without means 
to retain them, — is a ridiculous figure 1 
The minister of July, who said ,to the peo- 
ple, * Make yourselves rich,’ was not a fool. 
He gave them the magic formula for power. 
But they have not the sense to understand 
it. They want to go too fast. They launch 
into speculations, and become rich, it is 
true ; but in what ? Stocks, bonds, paper, — 
rags, in short. It is smoke they are lock- 
ing in their coffers. They prefer to invest 
in merchandise, which pays eight or ten per 
cent, to investing in vines or corn which 
will return but three. The peasant is not 
so foolish. From the moment he owns a 
piece of ground the size of a handkerchief, 
lie wants to make it as large as a tablecloth. 
He is slow as the oxen lie ploughs with, 
but as patient, as tenacious, and as obsti- 
nate. He goes directly to his object, press- 
ing firmly against the yoke ; and nothing 
can stop or turn him aside. He knows 
that stocks may rise or fall, fortunes be won 
or lost on ’change ; but the land always re- 
mains, — the real standard of wealth. To 
become landholders, the peasant starves 
himself, wears sabots in winter ; and the im- 
beciles who laugh at him will be astonished 
by and by when he makes his ’93, and the 
peasant becomes a baron in power if not 
in name.” 

“ I do not understand the application,’ 
said the viscount. 

“ You do not understand ? Why, what 
the peasant is doing is what the nobles 
ought to have done ! Ruined, their duty 
was to reconstruct their fortunes. Com- 
merce is interdicted to us ; be it so : agri- 
culture remains. Instead of grumbling 
uselessly during the half-century, instead 
of running themselves into debt, in the 
ridiculous attempt to support an appearance 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


65 


of grandeur, they ought to have retreated 
to their provinees, shut themselves up in 
their chateaux ; there worked, economized, 
denied themselves, as the peasant is doing, 
purchased the land piece by piece. Had 
they taken this course, they would to-day 
possess France. Their wealth would be 
enormous ; for the value of land rises year 
after year. I have, without effort, doubled 
my fortune in thirty years. Blauville, 
which cost my father a hundred «rowns in 
1817, is worth to-day more than a million : 
so that, when I hear the nobles complain, 
I shrug the shoulder. Who but they are 
to blame? They impoverish themselves 
from year to year. They sell their land 
to the peasants. Soon they will be reduced 
to beggary, and their some time great names 
be found only on their escutcheons. What 
consoles me is, that the peasant, having 
become the proprietor of our domains, will 
then be all-powerful, and will yoke to his 
chariot wheels these traders in scrip and 
stocks, whom he hates as much as I ex- 
ecrate them myself.” 

^The carriage at this moment stopped in 
Hhfescourt of the Hotel Commarin, after hav- 
ing described that perfect circle, the glory 
of coachmen who preserve the old tradit ions. 

The count alighted from the carriage, 
leaning upon his son’s arm, and ascended 
the steps of the grand entrance. 

In the immense vestibule, nearly all the 
servants, dressed in rich liveries, stood in a 
line. 

The count gave them a glance, in pass- 
ing, as an officer might his soldiers on 
parade, and proceeded to his apartments 
upon the second floor, above the reception 
rooms. 

Never was there a better regulated house- 
hold than that of the Hotel de Commarin, — 
a considerable establishment, too ; for the 
count’s fortune enabled him to sustain a 
retinue greater than that of a German 
prince. He possessed in a high degree the 
art, more rare than is generally supposed, 
of commanding an army of servants. 

According to Riviral, a man’s manner of 
o-iving an order to a lackey establishes liis 
rank better than a hundred genealogies on 
parchment. 

The number of his domestics gave the 
count neither inconvenience ner embarrass- 
ment. They were necessary to him. Al- 
though he was exacting, never permitting 
the expression, “ I did not understand,” 
he was rarely heard to administer a reproof. 

So perfect was the organization of this 
household, that its functions were per- 
formed like those of a machine, — without 
noise, variation, or effort. 


Thus, when the count returned from his 
journey, the sleeping hotel was awakened 
as if by the spell of an enchanter. Each 
servant was at his post ; and the occupa- 
tions, interrupted during the past six weeks, 
resumed without confusion. As the count 
was known to have passed the day on the 
road, the dinner was served in advance of 
the usual hour. All the establishment, 
even to the lowest scullion, represented the 
spirit of the first article of the rules of the 
house, “ Servants are not to execute orders, 
but anticipate them.” 

M. de Commarin had hardly removed 
the traces of his journey, and changed his 
dress, when his Maitre d’ Hotel an- 
nounced, — 

“ M. le Count is served.” 

He descended at once; and father and 
son met upon the threshold of the dining- 
room. 

This was a large apartment, very high 
in the ceiling, as were all the rooms of the 
first floor, and was at once 'magnificent 
and simple in its furniture and appoint- 
ments. 

One only of its four sideboards would 
have encumbered a dining-room of the 
Rue Malescherhes. 

A collector of curiosities would have 
found much to occupy his attention on 
those four sideboards, loaded as they were 
with antique gold and silver plate, rare 
enamels, marvellous china, and porcelain 
that might make a king of Saxony turn 
green with jealousy. 

The table service, resplendent in silver 
and cut glass, which occupied the middle 
of the room, was in keeping with this luxury. 

The count was not only a great eater, 
but was vain of his enormous appetite, — 
the possession of which would have been 
to a poor devil an awful calamity. He was 
fond of recalling the names of great men, 
noted for their capacity of stomach. 
Charles the fifth devoured mountains of 
viands. Louis XIV. swallowed at each 
repast as much as six ordinary men. He 
argued, pleasantly, that we may judge of 
men’s qualities by their digestive capacities. 
He compared them to lamps, whose power 
of giving light is in proportion to the oil 
they consume. 

The first half hour of dinner passed in 
silence. M. de Commarin eat conscien- 
tiously, either not perceiving or not caring 
to notice that his son eat nothing, but 
merely sat at the table as if to countenance 
him. But with the dessert the old noble- 
man’s ill-humor and volubility returned, 
apparently increased by the Burgundy, 
which he drank unsparingly. 


66 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


He was partial, moreover, to after dinner 
argument, professing a theory that spirited 
discussion is a perfect digestive. A letter 
which had been delivered to him on his 
arrival, and which he had found time to 
glance over, gave him at once a subject and 
a point of departure. 

“ I arrived here at one o’clock,” said he ; 
“ and I have already received a homily 
from Broisfresnay.” 

“ Me writes often,” observed Albert. 

“ Too much ; he consumes himself in 
ink. More ridiculous projects, vain hopes, 
veritable childishness ! and he mentions at 
least a dozen names of men high in power 
as associates. By my word of honor, men 
seem to have lost their senses ! They talk 
of lifting the world, only they want the lever 
and the point on which to rest it. It makes 
me die with laughter 1 ” 

For ten minutes the count continued to 
discharge a volley of epigrams and sar- 
casms against his best friends, without seem- 
ing to see that a great many of the foibles 
he ridiculed were his own as much as 
theirs. 

“ If,” continued he more seriously, — “ if 
they showed any confidence in themselves, 
they might be entitled to respect ; but they 
have not even the virtue of courage. They 
count upon others to do for them what they 
ought to do for themselves.' They are in 
continual quest of some one better mounted, 
who will consent to take them on his crup- 
per. In short, their proceedings are a series 
of confessions of helplessness, of premature 
declarations of failure.” 

Coffee was served ; and the count made 
a sign. 

The servants left the room. 

“ No,” said the count, “ I see but one 
hope for the French aristocracy, but one 
plank of salvation, one good little law, 
establishing the right of primogeniture.” 

“ You will never obtain it, monsieur.” 

“ You would oppose such a measure, 
viscount.” 

Albert knew by experience what dan- 
gerous ground his father was approaching, 
and was silent. 

“ Let us put it, then, that I dream of the 
impossible ! ” resumed the count. “ Let the 
nobles do their duty. When the younger 
sons and daughters of great houses devote 
themselves to establish their families, by 
giving up the entire patrimony to its first- 
born tor flVe generations, contenting them- 
selves each one with a hundred louis a 
year, then only can great fortunes be re- 
constructed, and families, instead of being 
divided by a variety of interests, become 
united by a common aspiration, — have 


a political influence, a position in the 
State.” 

“Unfortunately,” objected the viscount, 
“ the time is not favorable to such devoted- 
ness.” 

“I know it, monsieur,” replied the count 
quickly; “and in my own house I have 
proved it. I have conjured you to renounce 
the espousal of the grand-daughter of this 
old fool, the Marquise d’ Arlanges. To 
what purpose ? ” 

“ My father — ” Albert was beginning. 

“ It is well,” interrupted the count. 
“ You will take your own course ; but 
remember my prediction : you will give the 
mortal blow to our house ; you will be one 
of the largest proprietors in France, but 
have half a dozen children ; and they will 
be hardly rich. Live to be an old man, and 
you will see your grandchildren in poverty 1 ” 

“ You put all at the worst, father.” 

“ Without doubt : it is the only means 
of pointing out the danger, and averting 
the evil. You talk of your life’s happiness. 
A truly noble man thinks of his name and 
family before all, even his life’s happiness. 
Mademoiselle d’ Arlanges is very pretty, 
and very attractive ; but she has not a sou.. 
It is your duty to marry an heiress.” 

“ Whom I shall not love ? ” 

“ The same old song. Pshaw ! the lady 
I wish you to marry will bring you four 
millions in her apron, — a larger dowry 
than the kings of to-da^ can give their 
daughters.” 

The discussion upon this subject would 
have been interminable, had Albert taken 
an active share in it; but his mind was 
leagues away : and he answered from time 
to time only, and then in monosyllables. 
This absence of opposition was more irrita- 
ting to the count than the most obstinate 
contradiction. He directed his utmost 
efforts to pique his son ; that was his next 
tactique. 

Meanwhile, he was vainly prodigal of 
words, and unsparing in provoking and 
unpleasant allusions. At length, from 
being irritated, he became furious ; and, 
on receiving a laconic response, he burst 
forth, — 

“ Parbleu ! the son of my Maitre d’ 
Hotel argues no worse than you. What 
blood have you in your veins ? You are 
more like a son of the people than a scion 
of the de Commarins 1 ” 

There are certain conditions of mind in 
which the least conversation jars upon the 
nerves. During the last half hour, Albeit 
had suffered an intolerable punishment. 
The patience with which he had armed 
himself at last escaped him. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


67 


“ Well, monsieur,” he answered, “ if I 
resemble a son of the people, there are 
perhaps good reasons for it.” 

The glance accompanying the speech was 
so expressive that the count experienced a 
sudden shock. All the animation departed 
from his manner ; and, in a hesitating voice, 
he demanded, — 

“ What do you say, viscount ? ” 

Albert no sooner uttered the sentence 
than he regretted his precipitation ; but he 
had gone too far to retreat. 

“Monsieur,” he said with a peculiar 
calmness, “ I have to confer with you on 
important matters. My honor, yours, the 
honor of our house, are involved. I in- 
tended postponing the conversation till to- 
morrow, not desiring to trouble you on the 
evening of your return ; but you have in- 
troduced the topic, and we must pro- 
ceed.” 

The count listened with ill-concealed 
anxiety. He divined the misfortune that 
had occurred, and was terrified at himself 
for having divined it. 

“ Believe me, monsieur,” continued Al- 
bert, “ whatever may have been your acts, 
my voice will never be raised to reproach 
you. Your constant goodness — ” 

M. de Commarin held up his hand. 

“ A truce to preambles ; the facts without 
phrases,” said he, sternly. 

Albert was slow to answer : he hesitated 
where to commence. 

“ Monsieur,” said he at length, “ during 
your absence, I have read all your correspon- 
dence with Madame Gerdy, — all ! ” empha- 
sizing the last word, already so significant. 

The count started up, as if stung by a 
serpent, with such violence that his chair 
rolled back several paces. 

“ Not a word 1 ” cried he in a terrible 
voice. “ I forbid you to speak.” 

He was ashamed of his violence, evi- 
dently ; for he replaced his chair with an 
affectation of calmness. 

“ Who will hereafter refuse to believe in 
presentiments?” he resumed in a tone 
which he strove to render light and rally- 
ing. “ An hour ago, on seeing your pale 
face at the railway station, I felt that you 
had learned something, — much or little, — 
of this history. I was sure of it.” 

With one accord, father and son avoided 
letting their* eyes meet, lest they might en- 
counter glances too eloquent to bear at so 
painful a moment. 

“ You said, monsieur,” said the count, 
“ honor demands this conference ; it is im- 
portant, then, to avoid delay. Will you 
follow me to my room ? ” 

He rang the bell. A valet appeared. 


“ Neither M. the viscount nor I am at home 
to any one, no matter whom. We are not 
to be interrupted.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

This revelation irritated, much more than 
surprised, the Count de Commarin. 

Indeed, for twenty years, he had been 
expecting to see the truth brought to light. 
He knew that there could be no secret so 
carefully guarded that it might not by some 
chance escape ; and his had been known 
to four people, three of whom were still 
living. 

He had not forgotten that he had been 
imprudent enough to trust this secret to 
paper, knowing all the while that it ought 
never to have been written. 

How could he, a prudent diplomat, a 
statesman, used to precaution, have put it 
in writing ? How, after writing, could he 
have allowed this fatal correspondence to 
remain in existence? Why had he not 
destroyed, at whatever cos,t, these over- 
whelming proofs, which sooner or later 
would be brought against him ? Such im- 
prudence could only have been caused by 
an absurd passion, blind, insensible, im- 
provident even to madness. 

It is characteristic of love to have such 
belief in its continuance that it is scarcely 
satisfied with the prospect of eternity. 
Absorbed completely in the present, it 
takes no thought for the future. 

Besides, what man ever dreams of put- 
ting himself on his guard against the 
woman he loves ? The enamored Samson 
is ever ready to submit his hair to the scis- 
sors of his Delila. 

So long as he was Valerie’s lover, the 
count never thought of asking the return 
of his letters from his beloved accomplice. 
If the idea had occurred to him, he would 
have repelled it as an insult to the charac- 
ter of his angel. 

What reason could he have had to sus- 
pect her discretion? None. He would 
have been much more likely to have sup- 
posed her interested in removing every 
trace, even the slightest, of the occurrences 
which had taken place. Was it not her 
son who had received the benefits of the 
deed, — who had usurped another’s name 
and fortune ? 

When, eight years after, thinking him- 
self deceived, the count had broken off* the 
connection which had given him so much 
happiness, he thought of obtaining posses- 


68 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


sion of this unhappy correspondence. But 
he knew no way. A thousand reasons pre- 
vented his moving in the matter. 

The principal one of these reasons was, 
that he had resolved never again to meet 
this woman, once so dearly loved. He did 
not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger 
or of his firmness. Could he, without 
yielding, resist* the tearful pleading of 
those eyes, which had so long held com- 
plete sway over his soul ? 

To look again upon this mistress of his 
youth would, he feared, result in his forgiv- 
ing her ; and he had been too cruelly 
wounded in his pride and in his affection 
to admit the idea of a reconciliation. 

On the other hand, to obtain the letters 
through a third party was entirely out of 
the question. He abstained, then, from all 
action, postponing it indefinitely. 

“ I will go to her,” said he ; “ but not 
until I have so torn her from my heart that 
she will have become indifferent to me. I 
will not gratify her with the sight of my 
grief.” 

So months and years passed on ; and 
finally he began to say and believe that it 
was too late. , 

The truth was, that there were memories 
which it would have been imprudent to 
awake. By an unjust mistrust, he might 
provoke her to using the letters. 

Can you better force a well-armed per- 
son to use his arms than by demanding 
their surrender ? After so long a silence, 
to ask for the letters would be nearly the 
same as declaring war. Besides, were they 
still in existence ? who could tell ? what 
more likely than that Madame Gerdy had 
destroyed them, understanding that their 
existence was dangerous and that their de- 
struction alone could render her son’s usur- 
pation safe? 

M. de Commarin was not blind; but, 
finding himself in an inextricable dif- 
ficulty, he thought the wisest course was to 
trust to chance : and so he left open for his 
old age this door to a guest who was always 
entering, — Unhappiness. 

And for now more than twenty years, 
he had never passed a day without cursing 
his inexcusable folly. 

Never had he been able to forget that 
above his head hung a danger more terri- 
ble than the sword of Damocles, suspended 
by a thread, which the slightest accident 
might break. 

To-day this thread had broken. 

Often, when considering the possibility 
of such a catastrophe, he had asked him- 
self how he should avert it ? 

He had formed and rejected many plans : 


he had deluded himself, like all men of 
imagination, who, with a wealth of chimeri- 
cal projects, find themselves at last sur- 
prised while unprepared. 

Albert stood respectfully, while his fa- 
ther sat in his great armorial chair, just 
beneath the large chart, where the genea- 
logical tree of the illustrious family of 
Rheteau de Commarin spread its luxuri- 
ant branches. 

The old gentleman permitted no one to 
see the cruel apprehensions which oppressed 
him. He Seemed neither irritated nor de- 
jected ; but his eyes expressed a haughti- 
ness more than usually disdainful, — a self- 
reliance full of contempt, rendering him 
imperturbable. 

“ Now, viscount,” he began in a firm 
voice, “explain yourself. I need- say noth- 
ing to you of the pain of a father, obliged 
to blush before his son ; you feel, and pity. 
Let us spare each other, and try to be 
calm. Tell me, how did you obtain your 
knowledge of this correspondence ? ” 

Albert had had time to recover himself, 
and prepare for the present struggle, as he 
had waited four days for this interview 
with mortal impatience. 

The difficulty he experienced in speak- 
ing the first words had given place to a digni- 
fied and proud demeanor. He expressed 
himself clearly and forcibly, without losing 
himself in those details which in grave 
matters only retard progress. 

“Monsieur,” he replied, “on Monday 
morning, a young man appeared here, sta- 
ting that he had business with me of the 
utmost importance and secrecy. I received 
him. He then revealed to me that I, alas ! 
am only your natural son, substituted, 
through your affection, for the legitimate 
child borne to you by Madame de Com- 
marin.” 

“ And you did not kick this man out of 
doors ? ” exclaimed the count. 

“ No, monsieur. I should have answered 
him very sharply, of course ; but, present- 
ing me with a package of letters, he begged 
me to read them before replying;” 

“ Ah ! ” cried M. de Commarin, “ you did 
not throw them in the fire, — there was a 
fire, I suppose? You held them in your 
hands ; and they still exist. I would have 
done very differently ! ” 

“ Monsieur ! ” said Albert, reproachfully. 

And, recalling the position Noel had 
occupied^ before the mantel, and the man- 
ner in which he stood, he added, — 

“ Even if the thought had occurred to 
me, it was impracticable. Besides, at the 
first glance, I recognized your handwriting. 

I then took the letters, and read-them.” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


69 


“ And then ? ” 

“ And then, monsieur, I returned the 
correspondence to the young man, and 
asked for a delay of eight days; not to 
think over it myself, — there was no need 
of that, — but because I judged an inter- 
view with you indispensable. Now, there- 
fore, I beseech ) ou, tell me whether this 
substitution ever took place.” 

“ Certainly it did,” replied the count 
violently, — “ certainly. You know that it 
did ; for you have read what I wrote to 
Madame Gerdy, your mother.” 

Albert had foreseen, had expected this 
reply ; but it crushed him. 

This was one of those misfortunes, so 
great, that you have to keep repeating it 
to yourself before you can actually realize 
it. This flinching lasted but an instant, 
however. 

“ Pardon me, monsieur,” he replied. “ I 
believed it ; but I had not a formal assur- 
ance of it. All the letters that I read 
spoke distinctly of your purpose, detailing 
your plan minutely ; but not one pointed to, 
or in any way confirmed, the execution of 
the project.” 

The count gazed at his son with a look 
of intense surprise. He recollected dis- 
tinctly all the letters; and he could re- 
member, that, in writing to Valerie, he had 
over and over rejoiced at their success, 
thanking her for having acted in accord- 
ance with his wishes. 

“ You did not finish, then, viscount,” he 
said, “ you did not read all ? ” 

“ Every line, monsieur, and with an at- 
tention that you may well understand. 
The last letter shown me simply announced 
to Madame Gerdy the arrival of Claudine 
Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with 
accomplishing the exchange. I know noth- 
ing beyond that.” 

“ These proofs amount to nothing,” mut- 
tered the count. “ A man may form a 
plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the last 
moment abandon it; it often happens so.” 

He reproached himself for having an- 
swered so hastily. Albert had had only 
serious suspicions : he had changed them 
to certainty. What a mistake ! 

« There can be no possible doubt,” he 
said to himself; “Valerie has destroyed 
the most conclusive letters, those which 
appeared to her the most dangerous? those 
I wrote after the exchange. Rut why has 
she preserved these others, compromising 
enough in themselves ? and why, after hav- 
ing preserved them, has she let them out 
of her possession ? ” 

“ Perhaps she is dead 1 ” said M. de Com- 
marin aloud. J 


And at this thought of Valerie dead, 
without his having again seen her, he 
started painfully. His heart, after more 
than twenty years of voluntary separation, 
still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first 
love of his youth. He had cursed her; 
at this moment, he would have pardoned 
her. She had deceived him, it is true ; but 
did he not owe to her the only years of 
happiness he had ever known ? Had she 
not formed all the poetry of his youth? 
Had he experienced, since leaving her, one 
single hour of happiness ? In his present 
frame of mind, his heart retained only 
happy memories, like a vase which, once 
filled with the precious perfumes, retains 
the odor even after it is itself destroyed. 

“ Poor girl ! ” he murmured. 

He sighed deeply. Three or four times 
his eye-lids twinkled, as if a tear had nearly 
fallen. Albert watched him with anxious 
curiosity. This was the first time since the 
viscount had grown to man’s estate that he 
had surprised in his father’s countenance 
other emotion than ambition or pride, con- 
quered or triumphant. But M. de Comma- 
rin’s was not the character to yield long to 
sentiment. 

“You have not told me, viscount,” he 
said, “ who sent you this unhappy mes- 
sage ? ” 

“ He came in person, monsieur, not wish- 
ing, he told me, to bring a third party into 
this sad affair. The young man was no 
other than he whose place I have occupied, 
— your legitimate son, Noel Gerdy him- 
self.” 

“ Yes,” said the count in a low tone, 
“ Noel ; that is his name : I remember.” 
And then, with evident hesitation, he 
added, “ did he speak to you of his — of 
your mother ? ” 

“ Scarcely, monsieur. He only told me 
that he had been brought up in ignorance 
of the secret which he had accidentally 
discovered, and which he revealed to me.” 

M. de Commarin made no reply. There 
was nothing more for him to learn. He 
was reflecting. The decisive moment had 
come ; and he saw but one way to escape. 

“ Come, viscount,” he said, in a tone so 
affectionate that Albert was astonished, 
“ do not stand ; sit down here by me, and 
let us discuss this matter. Let us unite our 
efforts to shun, if possible, this great mis- 
fortune. Confide in me, as a son should in 
his father. Have you thought of what is to 
be done ? have you formed any determina- 
tion ? ” 

“ It seems to me, monsieur, that hesita 
tion is impossible.” 

“ In what way ? * 


70 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“My duty, father, to me is very plain. 
Before your legitimate son, I ought to give 
•vvay without a murmur, if not without re- 
gret. Let him come. I am ready to yield 
to him every thing that I have so long, 
without a suspicion of the truth, kept from 
1 him, — a father’s love, his fortune and his 
name.” 

The old gentleman, at this most praise- 
worthy reply, could scarcely preserve the 
calmness he had recommended to his son 
in the earlier part of the interview. His 
face grew purple ; and he struck the table 
with his fist more furiously than he had ever 
done in his life. He, usually so guarded, 
so decorous on all occasions, uttered a vol- 
ley of oaths that would not have done dis- 
credit to an old cavalry officer. 

“ And I tell you, sir, that this, your dream 
of life, shall never take place. No; that it 
sha’n’t. I promise you, whatever happens, 
understand, that things must remain as 
they are ; because it is my wish. You are 
Viscount de Commarin ; and Viscount de 
Commarin you shall remain, in spite of 
yourself. You shall retain the title to your 
death, or at least to mine ; for never, while 
I live, shall your absurd idea be carried 
out.” 

“But, monsieur,” began Albert, timid- 

ty- 

“ You are very fond of interrupting me 
while I am speaking, monsieur,” exclaimed 
the count. “ Do I not know all your objec- 
tions beforehand ? You are going to 
tell me that it is a revolting injustice, a 
wicked robbery. I confess it, and grieve 
over it more than you possibly can. Do 
you think that I now for the first time 
repent of my youthful folly ? For twenty 
years, monsieur, I have lamented my 
true son ; for twenty years have I 
cursed the wickedness of which he is the 
victim. And yet I taught myself to keep 
silence, to hide the sorrow and the remorse 
which has covered my pillow with thorns. 
In a single instant, your senseless yielding 
would render my long-suffering of no avaif 
No, I will never permit it ! ” 

The count read a reply on his son’s lips : 
he stopped him with a withering glance. 

“ Do you think,” he continued, “ that I 
have never wept over the thought of my 
legitimate son passing his life struggling for 
a competence ? Do you think that° I have 
never felt a burning desire to repair the 
wrong done him ? There have been times, 
monsieur, when I would have given half of 
my fortune simply to embrace that child of 
a wife too tardily appreciated. The fear 
of casting a shadow of suspicion upon your 
birth prevented me. I have sacrificed my- 


self to the great name I bear. I received 
it from my ancestors without a stain. May 
you hand it down to your children equally 
spotless 1 Your first purpose is a worthy 
one, — noble, chivalrous ; but you must for- 
get it. Think of the scandal, if our 
secret should be disclosed to the pub- 
lic gaze. Can you not foresee the joy of 
that herd of parvenues who surround us ? 
I shudder at the thought of the odium, the 
ridicule which will attach to our name. 
Too many familes already have stains 
upon their escutcheons ; I hope ours will 
never be among the number.” 

M. de Commarin had stopped several 
minutes, without Albert’s daring to reply, 
so much had he been accustomed since in- 
fancy to respect the least wish of the terri- 
ble old gentleman. 

“ There is no possible way out of it,” 
continued the count. “ Shall I to-morrow 
discard you, and present this Noel as my 
son, saying, ‘ Excuse me, but there has been 
a slight mistake in identity : I didn’t know 
my own son ? ’ And then the tribunals 
will get hold of it. Now, if our name were 
Benoit, Durand, or Bernard, it would make 
no difference ; but, when one is called a 
Commarin, even but for a single day, he 
must retain it through life. Justice is not 
the same in every case ; because all have 
not the same duties. In our position, errors 
are irreparable. Take courage, then, and 
show yourself worthy of the name you 
bear. The storm is upon you ; raise your 
head to meet it.” 

Albert’s impassibility contributed not a 
little to increase M. de Commarin’s irrita- 
tion. Firm in an unchangeable resolution, 
the viscount listened like one fulfilling a 
duty ; and his face reflected no emotion. 
The count saw that he was not shaken. 

“ What have you to reply ? ” he asked. 

“ It seems to me, monsieur, that you do 
not understand all the dangers to which I 
am exposed. It is difficult to master the 
revolts of conscience.” 

“ Indeed ! ” interrupted the count con- 
temptuously; “your conscience revolts, 
does it ? It has chosen its time badly. 
Your scruples come too late. So long as 
you saw, in succeeding me, an illustrious 
title and a dozen or so of millions, it smiled 
on you. To-day the name appears to you 
laden with a heavy fault, — a crime, if you 
will ; and your conscience revolts. Re- 
nounce this tolly. Children, monsieur, are 
accountable to their fathers; and they 
should obey them. Willing or unwilling, 
you must be my accomplice ; willing or un- 
willing, you must bear the burden, as 1 
have borne it. And, however much you 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


71 


suffer, be assured it can never approach 
what I have endured for so many years.” 

Y “ Ah, monsieur ! ” cried Albert, “ is it then 
/b the dispossessor, who has made this 
trouble ? is it not, on the contrary, the dis- 
possessed $ It is not I who have moved in 
the matter ; it is Noel Gerdy.” 

“ Noel ! ” repeated the count. 

“ Your legitimate son, yes, monsieur. 
You act as if the issue of this unhappy 
affair depended solely upon my will. Do 
you, then, imagine that Noel Gerdy will be 
so easily disposed of, so easily silenced? 
And, if he should raise his voice, do you 
hope to accomplish much through the con- 
siderations you have just mentioned ? ” 

“ I have no doubt of it.” 

“ Then you are wrong, monsieur, per- 
mit me to tell you. Suppose for a moment 
that this young man has ever had a soul 
sufficiently noble to relinquish his claim 
upon your rank and your fortune. Is there 
not now the accumulated rancor of years 
to urge him to oppose us? He cannot help 
feeling a fierce resentment for the horrible 
injustice of which he has been the victim. 
He must passionately long for vengeance, 
or rather reparation.” 

“ He has no proofs.” 

“ He has your letters, monsieur.” 

“ They are not decisive, you have told me.” 

“That is true, monsieur; and yet they 
convinced me, who am interested in not 
being convinced. Besides, if he needs 
witnesses, he will find them.” 

“ Who ? You, probably.” 

“ Yourself, monsieur. The day when he 
wishes it, you will betray us. Suppose you 
were summoned belore the tribunals, and 
that there, under oath, you should be re- 
quired to speak the truth, what answer 
would you make ? ” 

M. de Commarin’s fhce darkened at this 
very natural supposition. He hesitated, — 
he whose honor was usually so great. 

“ I would save the name of my ances- 
tors,” he said at last. 

Albert shook his head doubtfully. 

“ At the price of a lie, my father,” he 
said. “ I never will believe that. But let 
us suppose even that. He will then Call 
upon Madame Gerdy.” 

“ Oh, I will answer for her ! ” cried the 
count ; “ her interests are the same as ours. 
If necessary, I will see her. Yes,” he 
added with an effort, “I will go to her 
house : I will speak to her ; and I will 
guarantee that she does not betray us.” 

“ And Claudine,” continued the young 
man : “ will she be silent, too ? ” 

“ For money, yes ; and I will give her 
whatever she asks.” 


“ And you would trust, father, to a paid 
silence, as if one could ever be sure of a 
purchased conscience? What is sold to 
you may be sold to another. A certain sum 
may close her mouth ; a much larger will 
open it.” 

“ I will risk it.” 

“ You forget, father, that Claudine 
Lerouge was Noel Gerdy’s nurse, that she 
takes an interest in his happiness, that she 
loves him. How do you know that he has 
not already secured her aid ? She lives at 
Bougival. I have been there, I remember, 
with you. Without doubt, he sees her 
often. Perhaps it was she who put him on 
the track of this correspondence. He 
spoke to me of her, as though he were sure 
of her testimony. He almost proposed 
my going to her for information.” 

“Alas!” cried the count, “why is not 
Claudine dead instead of my faithful Ger- 
main ? ” 

“ You see, monsieur,” concluded Albert, 
“ Claudine Lerouge alone stands in the 
way of your project.” 

“ Ah, no ! ” cried the count ; “ I will find 
some expedient.” 

The obstinate old gentleman was not 
willing to give in to this argument, whose 
very clearness blinded him. The pride of 
his blood paralyzed in him his usual practi- 
cal good sense, and obscured his remarka- 
ble clear headedness. To acknowledge 
himself conquered by necessity humiliated 
him, seemed to him disgraceful, unworthy 
of him. He did not remember to have met 
during his long career an invincible resis- 
tance or an absolute impediment. 

He was a little like those Hercules, who, 
having never experienced a limit to their 
strength, believe that they could overcome 
mountains if they desired. 

He had also the misfortune of all men 
of imagination, who fall in love with their 
projects, and who try to make them suc- 
ceed on all occasions, as if wishing hard 
was all that was necessary to change their 
dreams into realities. 

Albert this time broke the silence, whose 
length threatened to be prolonged. 

“ I see, monsieur,” he said, “ that you 
fear, above all things, the publicity of this 
sad history; the possible scandal renders you 
desperate. But, unless we yield, the up- 
roar will be terrible. If a writ is issued 
against us to-morrow, in four days our trial 
will be the talk of all Europe. The news- 
papers will print tlm facts, accompanied by 
heaven knows what comments of their 
own. Our name, however the trial resu'ts, 
will appear in all the papers of the world. 
This might be borne, if we were sure of 


72 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


succeeding ; but we might fail, my father, 
— 1 we might fail. Then think of the noise, 
think of the dishonor branded upon us in 
public opinion.” 

“I think,” said the count, “that you can 
have neither respect nor affection for me, 
when you speak in that way.” 

“it is my duty, monsieur, to point out 
to you the evils I see threatening, and which 
there is yet time to shun. Noel Gerdy is 
your legitimate son ; recognize him, acknowl- 
edge his just pretensions, receive him. We 
can make the change very quietly: It is 
easy to account for it, through a mistake 
of the nurse, — Claudine Lerouge, for in- 
stance. All the parties being in accord, 
there can be no trouble made. What is to 
prevent the new Viscount de Commarin 
from quitting Paris, and being lost to sight ? 
He might travel in Europe four or five 
years; by the end of that time, all will 
be forgotten. No one will remember me 
more.” 

M. de Commarin was not listening : he 
was deep in thought. 

“ But instead of contesting, viscount,” he 
cried, “ we might compromise. We may be 
able to purchase these letters. What does 
this young fellow want ? A position and a 
fortune V I will give him both.- I will make 
him as rich as he can ask. I will give him 
a million ; if need be, two, three, — half of 
all I possess. With money, you see, much 
money — ” 

“ Spare him, monsieur ; he is your son.” 

“ Curse it ! and I wish him to the devil 
for it ! I will show him that he had better 
compromise. I will prove to him the bad 
policy of the earthen pot beating against 
the iron kettle ; and, if he is not a fool, he 
will understand it.” 

The count rubbed his hands while speak- 
ing. He was delighted with this brilliant 
plan of negotiation. It could not fail to 
result favorably. A crowd of arguments 
occurred to his mind for proving his case. 
He would buy back again his lost quiet. 

But Albert did not seem to share his 
father’s hopes. 

“ You will perhaps think it unkind in me, 
monsieur,” said he sadly, “to dispel this 
last illusion of yours ; but it must be. Do 
not delude yourself with the idea of an amica- 
ble arrangement : the awakening will only 
be the more painful. I have seen this Ger- 
<ly» my father; and he is not one, I assure 
you, to be intimidated. If ever there was 
an energetic will in the world, his is one. 
He is truly your son ; and his expression, 
lilce yours, shows an iron resolution, to be 
broken but never bent. I can still hear 
| his voice trembling with resentment, while 


he spoke to me. I can still see the dark 
fire of his eyes. No : he will never com- 
promise. He will have all or nothing ; and 
I cannot say that he is wrong. If we re- 
sist, he will attack us without the slightest 
consideration. Strong in his rights, he will 
cling to us with stubborn animosity. He 
will drag us from court to court ; he will 
not stop short x>f utter defeat or complete 
triumph.” 

Accustomed to absolute, almost unresist- 
ing obedience from his son, the old gentle- 
man was astounded at this unexpected ob- 
stinacy. 

“ What is your purpose, then ? ” he 
asked. 

“ It is this, monsieur. I should utterly 
despise myself, if I did not spare your old 
age this greatest of calamities. Your name 
does not belong to me ; I will take my own. 
I am your natural son. I will yield to 
your legitimate child. Permit me to with- 
draw with at least the honor of having freely 
done my duty. Do not force me to await ar- 
rest by the tribunal, which would drive me 
out in disgrace.” 

“ What ! ” cried the count stunned, “ you 
will abandon me ? You refuse to sustain me, 
you turn against me, recognize the rights 
of this man, in spite of my wishes ? ” 

Albert bowed. He was much moved, 
but still remained firm. 

“ My resolution is irrevocably taken,” he 
replied. “ I can never consent to despoil 
your son.” 

“ Cruel, ungrateful boy ! ” cried M. de 
Commarin. 

His wrath was such, that, when he found 
he could do nothing by abuse, he passed at 
once to jeering. 

“ But no,” he continued, “ you are great, 
you are noble, you are generous ; you are 
acting after the most approved pattern of 
chivalry, viscount, — I should say, my 
very dear Monsieur Gerdy, — after the 
fashion in Plutarch’s time 1 So you re- 
nounce my name, my fortune, and you leave 
me. You will shake the dust from your 
shoes upon my threshold ; and you will go 
out into the world. I see onlv one diffi- 
culty in your way. How do you expect to 
live, my stoic philosopher ? Have you an 
estate at your fingers’ ends, like Jean 
Jacques’ Emile? Or, my worthy Mon- 
sieur Gerdy, have you learned econo- 
my from the four thousand francs a month I 
allow you for waxing your moustache V Per- 
haps you will gamble at the Bourse ! Then 
you will uphold my name with a vengeance, 
— my name, that seems to you so very burden- 
some to wear. Is dirt, then, so great an attrac- 
tion for you that you must jump from the 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


73 


carriage so eagerly? Say, rather, that 
the company of my friends embarrasses 
you, and that you are anxious to go where 
you will be among your own equals.” 

“I am very wretched, monsieur,” re- 
plied Albert to this avalanche of insults, 
“ and you would crush me I ” 

“ You wretched l Well, whose ' fault is 
it ? But let us get back to my question ; 
how and on what will you live ? ” 

“ I am not so romantic as you are pleased 
to suggest, monsieur. I must confess that, 
for the future, I have counted upon your 
goodness. You are so rich, that five hun- 
dred thousand francs would not materially 
effect your fortune; and, on the income of 
that sum, I could live quietly, if not happi- 
1 y.” 

“ And if I should refuse you this 
money ? ” 

“ I know you well enough, monsieur, to 
feel sure that you will not refuse it. You 
are too just to wish that I should expiate 
alone the wrongs that were not of my 
making. Left to myself, I should have, at 
my present age, achieved a position. It is 
too late for me to make one now ; but I 
can at least try.” 

“ Superb ! ” broke in the count ; “ this 
is superb ! I never heard of such a hero 
of romance. What a character ! It has 
all the purity of Rome, all the firmness of 
Sparta. It is as grand as any thing in an- 
tiquity. But tell me, what do you expect 
from all this astonishing disinterested- 
ness ? ” 

“ Nothing, monsieur.” 

The count shrugged his shoulders, look- 
ing sarcastically at his son. 

“ The compensation is very slight. And 
you expect to make me believe it ? No, 
monsieur, mankind is not in the habit of 
doing such fine actions for its own satisfac- 
tion. You have some reason for acting so 
grandly, which I fail to catch.” 

“ None but what I have already told 
you.” 

“ Then you intend to renounce every 
thing ; you will even abandon your pro- 
posed union with Mademoiselle Claire 
d’Arlanges ? You forget that for two years 
I have in vain begged you to give this 
marriage up.” 

“ No, monsieur. I have seen Claire. I 
have explained my unhappy position to 
her. Whatever happens, she has sworn to 
be my wife.” 

“ And do you think that Madame 
d’ Arranges will give her grand-daughter to 
plain Monsieur Gerdy ? ” 

“I hope so, monsieur. The marquise is 
sufficiently infected with nobility to pre- 


fer the natural child of a gentleman 
to the son of some honest tradesman ; 
but if she refuses, — ah ! well, we will 
await her death, though without desiring 
it.” 


Albert’s uniformly calm tone enraged 
the count. 

“ Can this be my son ? ” he cried. 
“ Never ! What blood have you in your 
veins, monsieur? Perhaps your worthy 
mother might tell us, provided she ever 
knew herself.” 

“Monsieur,” broke in Albert fiercely, 
“ think well before you speak. She is my 
mother, and that is sufficient. I am her 
son, not her judge. No one in my presence 
shall speak disrespectfully of her: I will 
not permit it, monsieur ; and I will suffer 
it least of all from you.” 

The count used truly heroic efforts to 
keep his anger within bounds ; but he was 
beside himself at Albert’s position, What, 
he rebelled, he dared to brave him to his 
face, he threatened him ! The old man 
jumped from his chair, and moved toward 
his son as if he would strike him. 


“ Leave the room ! ” he cried, in a voice 
choking with rage, — “ leave the room in- 
stantly! Retire to your apartments, and 
take care not to leave them witliout my 
orders. To-morrow I will give you my 
decision.” 

Albert bowed respectfully, but without 
lowering his eyes, and walked slowly to the 
door. He had already opened it, when 
M. de Commarin experienced one of those 
revulsions of feeling, so frequent in violent 
natures. 

“ Albert,” said he, “ come back and lis- 
ten to me.” 

The young man turned, much affected 
by this change of tone. 

“ Do not go,” continued the count, “ until 
I have asked your pardon. You are wor- 
thy of being the heir of a great house, 
monsieur. I may be irritated by you ; but 
I can never lose my esteem for you. You 
are a noble man, Albert. Give me your 
hand.” 

This was a happy moment for both, and 
such a one as they had scarcely ever expe- 
rienced in their lives, restrained as they had 
been by cold etiquette. The count felt 
proud of his son, and recognized in him 
himself at that age. As for Albert, the 
real meaning of the scene then occurring 
impressed him: it had until now escaped 
him. For a long time their hands remained 
clasped, without either being able to utter 
a word. 

At last, M. de Commarin resumed his 
seat beneath the genealogical chart. 


74 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ I must ask you to leave me, Albert/’ 
he said kindly. “ I must be alone, to reflect 
upon, to try and accustom myself to this 
terrible blow.” 

And, as the young man closed the door, 
he added, as if giving vent to his inmost 
thoughts, — 

“ If he deserts me, in whom I have placed 
all my hope, what will become of me ? O 
my God ! And what can the other ever 
be to me ? ” 

Albert’s features, when he left the 
count’s study, bore traces of the violent 
emotions he had felt during the interview. 
The servants whom he met noticed it the 
more, as they had heard something of the 
quarrel. 

“ Well,” said an old footman who had 
been in the family thirty years, u the count 
has had another unhappy scene with his 
son. The old fellow has been in a dread- 
ful passion.” 

“ I got wind of it at dinner,” spoke up a 
valet de chambre : “ the count restrained him- 
self enough not to burst out before me ; 
but he rolled his eyes fiercely.” 

“ What can be the matter? ” 

“ Pshaw ! that’s more than they know 
themselves. Why, Denis, before whom 
they always speak freely, says that they 
often wrangle lor hours together, like dogs, 
about things which he can never see 
through.” 

“ Ah,” cried out a young fellow, who was 
being trained to service, “ if I were in the 
viscount’s place, I’d settle the old gent 
pretty effectually 1 ” 

“ Joseph, my friend,” said the footman 
pointedly, “ you are a fool. You might 
give your father his walking ticket very 
properly, because you never expect five 
sous from him ; and you have already 
learned how to earn your living without 
doing any work at all. But the viscount, 
ray tell me what he is good for, what he 
nows how to do ? Put him in the centre 
of Paris, with only his fine hands for capi- 
tal, and you will see.” 

“ Yes, but he has his mother’s property 
in Normandy,” replied Joseph. 

“ I can’t for the life of me,” said the 
valet de chambre , “ see what the count 
finds to complain of; for his son is a per- 
fect model, and I shouldn’t be sorry to have 
one like him. There was a very different 
pair, when I was in the Marquis de Courti- 
vois’s service. He was one who made it a 
point never to be in good humor. His 
eldest son, who is a friend of the viscount’s 
and who comes here occasionally, is a pit 
without a bottom, as far as money is con- 
cerned. He will fritter away a thousand- 


franc note quicker than Joseph can smoke 
a pipe.” 

“But the marquis is not rich,” said a 
little old man, who himself had perhaps the 
enormous wages of fifteen francs ; “ he can’t 
have more than sixty thousand francs’ 
income at the most.” 

“ That’s why he gets angry. Every day 
there is some new story about his son. He 
had an apartment in the house ; he went 
in and out when he pleased; he passed his 
nights in gaming and drinking; he cut up 
so°with the actresses that the police had to 
interfere. Besides all this, I have many a 
time had to help him up to his room, and 
put him to bed, when the waiters from the 
restaurants brought him home in a car- 
riage, so drunk that he could scarcely say 
a word.” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Joseph enthusiasti- 
cally, “ this fellow’s service must be 
mighty profitable.” 

“ That was according to circumstances. 
When he won at play, he was lavish with 
his money ; but he always lost : and, when 
he was drunk, he had a quick temper, and 
didn’t spare the blows. I must do him the 
justice to say, though, that his cigars were 
splendid. But he was a ruffian ; while the 
viscount here is a true child of wisdom. 
He is severe upon our faults, it is true ; 
but he is never harsh nor brutal to his 
servants. Then he is uniformly generous ; 
which in the long run pays us best. I 
must say that he is better than the major- 
ity, and that the count is very unreason- 
able.” 

Such was the judgment of the ser- 
vants. That of society was perhaps less 
favorable. 

The Viscount de Commarin was not one 
of those who possess the rather questiona- 
ble and at times unenviable accomplish- 
ment of pleasing every one. He was wise 
enough to distrust those astonishing per- 
sonages who are always praising every- 
body. In looking about us, we often see 
men of success and reputation, who are 
simply dolts, without any merit except 
their perfect insignificance. That stupid 
propriety which offend^ no one, that uni- 
form politeness which shocks no one’s van- 
ity, have peculiarly the gift of pleasing and 
of succeeding. 

One cannot meet certain people without 
saying, “I know that face ; I have seen it 
somewhere before ; ” because it has no indi- 
viduality, but simply resembles faces seen 
in a common crowd. It is precisely so 
with the minds of certain other people. 
When they speak, you know exactly what 
they are going to say : you have heard the 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


75 


same thing so many times already from 
them, you know all their ideas by heart. 
These people are welcomed everywhere ; 
because they have nothing peculiar about 
them; and peculiarity, especially in the 
upper classes, is always irritating and 
offensive : they detest all innovations. 

Albert was peculiar; consequently much 
mscussed, and very differently estimated. 
He was charged with sins of the most op- 
posite character, with faults so contradic- 
tory that they were their own defence. 
Some accuse him, for instance, of enter- 
taining ideas entirely too liberal for one of 
his rank ; and, at the same time, others 
complained of his excessive arrogance. 
He was charged with treating with insult- 
ing levity the most serious questions, and 
was then blamed for his affectation of 
gravity. People knew him scarcely well 
enough to love him, while they were jeal- 
ous of him and feared him. 

He wore a bored look in all fashionable 
reunions, which was considered very bad 
taste. Forced by his relations, by his 
father, to go into society a great deal, he 
was bored, and committed the unpardona- 
ble sin of letting it be seen. Perhaps he 
had been disgusted by the constant court 
made to him, by the rather coarse atten- 
tions which were never spared the noble 
heir of one of the richest families in 
France. Having all the necessary qualities 
for shining, he despised them. Dreadful 
sin ! he did not abuse his advantages ; 
and no one ever heard of his getting into 
a scrape. 

He had had once, it was said, a very de- 
cided liking for Madame Prosny, perhaps 
the naughtiest, certainly the most mischiev- 
ous woman in Paris; but that was all. 
Mothers who had daughters to dispose of 
upheld him; but, for the last two years, 
they had turned against him, when his love 
for Mademoiselle d’Arlanges became well 
known. 

At the club, they rallied him on his 
prudence. He had had, like others, his. 
run of follies; but he had soon got dis- 
gusted with what it is the fashion to call 
pleasure. The noble profession of bon viv- 
ant appeared to him very tame and tire- 
some. He did not enjoy passing his nights 
at cards ; nor did he appreciate the soci- 
ety of those frail sisters, who in Paris give 
notoriety to their lovers. He affirmed that 
a gentleman was not necessarily an ob- 
ject of ridicule, because he would not ex- 
pose himself in the theatre with these 
women. Finally, none of his friends could 
ever, inoculate him with a passion for the 
turf. 


As doing nothing wearied him, he at- 
tempted, like the parvenu, to give some 
meaning to life by work. He purposed, 
after a while, to take part in public affairs; 
and, as he had often been struck with the 
gross ignorance of many men in power, he 
wished to avoid their example, lie busied 
himself with politics; and this was the 
cause of all his quarrels with his father. 
The one word of “ liberal ” was enough to 
throw the count into convulsions ; and he 
suspected his son of liberalism, ever since 
reading an article by the viscount, pub- 
lished in the “ Revue des Deux Mondes.” 

His ideas, however, did not prevent his 
fully sustaining his rank. He spent most 
nobly on the world the revenue which 
placed his father and himself a little above 
it. His establishment, distinct from the 
count’s, was arranged as that of a wealthy 
young gentleman’s ought to be. His liver- 
ies left nothing to be desired ; and his 
horses and equipages were celebrated. 
Letters of invitation were eagerly sought 
for to the grand hunting parties, which he 
formed every year towards the end of Oc- 
tober at Commarin, — an admirable piece 
of property, covered with immense woods. 

Albert’s love for Claire — a deep, well- 
considered love — had contributed not a 
little to keep him from the habits and life 
of the pleasant and elegant idleness in- 
dulged in by his friends. A noble attach- 
ment is always a great safeguard. In contend- 
ing against it, M. de Commarin had only 
succeeded in increasing its intensity and 
insuring its continuance. This passion, so 
annoying to the count, was the source of 
the most vivid, the most powerful emotions 
in the viscount. Ennui was banished from 
his existence. 

All his thoughts took the same direc- 
tion ; all his actions had but one aim. 
Could he look to the right or the left, 
when, at the end of his journey, he per- 
ceived the reward so ardently desired? 
He resolved that he would never have any 
wife but Claire ; his father absolutely 
refused his consent. The effort to change 
this refusal had long been the business of 
his life. Finally, alter three years of per- 
severance, he had triumphed; the count 
had given his consent. And now, just as 
he was reaping the happiness of success, 
Noel had arrived, implacable as fate, with 
his cursed letters. 

On leaving M. de Commarin, and while 
slowly mounting the stairway which led to 
his apartment, Albert’s thoughts reverted 
to Claire. What was she doing at this 
moment ? Thinking of him, without a 
doubt. She knew that the crisis would 


76 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


come this very evening, or to-morrow at the 
latest. She must be praying. 

Albert felt. broken down. His suffering 
was intense. He felt dizzy ; his head 
seemed ready to burst. He rang, and or- 
dered some tea. 

•“ Monsieur does wrong in not sending 
for the doctor,” said Lubin, his valet de 
chambre. “ I ought to disobey you, and 
send for him myself.” 

“ It would be useless,” replied Albert 
sadly; “he could do nothing for my ill- 
ness.” 

As the valet was leaving the room, he 
added, — 

“ Say nothing about my suffering to any 
one, Lubin : it is nothing at all. If I am 
really ill, I will ring.” 

At that moment, to see any one, to hear 
a voice, to have to reply, seemed insupport- 
able. He longed to be left entirely to 
himself. 

After the painful emotions arising from 
his explanations with the count, he could 
not sleep. He opened one of the library 
windows, and leaned against the casement. 
It was a beautiful night : and there was a 
lovely moon. Seen at this hour, by the 
mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens 
seemed twice their usual size. The mo- 
tionless tops of the great trees stretched 
away like an immense plain, hiding the 
neighboring houses. The clumps in the 
flower garden, set off by the green shrub- 
bery, appeared like great black figures ; 
while in the carefully sanded walks sparkled 
particles of shell, little pieces of glass, and 
the polished pebbles. At the right, in the 
still lighted servants’ quarters, could be 
seen the servants passing to and fro ; and 
the step of a groom sounded qn the pave- 
ment in the court. The horses stamped in 
the stable ; and the rattling of their halter 
chains against the bars of the manger 
could be distinguished. In the carriage- 
house they were unharnessing the vehicle, 
always kept ready throughout the evening, 
in case the count should wish to go out. 

Albert had there under his eyes a com- 
plete picture of his magnificence. He 
sighed deeply. 

“ Must I, then, lose all this ? ” he murmur- 
ed. “I can scarcely, even for myself) 
abandon so many splendors without re- 
gret ; and thinking of Claire makes it 
harder. Have I not dreamed of a life of 
exceptional happiness for her almost im- 
possible to realize without wealth? ” 

Midnight sounded from St. Clotilde, 
whose twin arrows he could perceive by 
leaning slightly forward. 

He shivered ; it was growing cold. 


He closed his window, and sat down near 
the fire, which he stirred up. In the hope 
of obtaining a respite from his thoughts, 
he took up the evening paper, in which 
was an account of the assassination at 
Jonchere; but he found it impossible to 
read. The lines danced before his eyes. 
Then he thought of writing to Claire. He 
sat down at his desk, and wrote, “ My dear- 
ly loved Claire.” He could go no further ; 
his distracted brain could not furnish him 
with a single sentence. 

At last, at break of day, weariness over- 
powered him, sleep surprised him, on a 
sofa, where he had thrown himself, — a 
heavy sleep peopled with phantoms. 

At half-past nine in the morning, he was 
awakened with a start, by the noise of his 
door being opened with a crash. 

A servant entered, frightened, so breath- 
less, having come up the stairway four 
steps at a time, that he could scarcely 
speak. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ viscount, quick, 
fly, hide yourself, save yourself : they are 
here, they — ” 

A commissary of police, in uniform, ap- 
peared at the library door. He was fol- 
lowed by a number of men, among whom 
could be seen, keeping as much out of sight 
as possible, Pdre Tabaret. 

The commissary approached Albert. 

“ You are,” he asked, “ Guy Louis Marie 
Albert de Rheteau de Commarin V ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

The commissary raised his hand, while 
pronouncing the usual formula. 

“Monsieur de Commarin, in the name 
of the law I arrest you.” 

“ Me, monsieur ? me ? ” 

Albert, aroused suddenly from his pain- 
ful dreams, seemed hardly to comprehend 
what was taking place. He seemed to ask 
himself, — 

“ Am I really awake ? Is not this some 
hideous nightmare ? ” 

He threw a stupid look, much to the 
astonishment of the commissary of police, 
upon the men, and upon Pere Tabaret, 
who acted very much as though he was the 
one arrested. 

“Here is the warrant,” added the com- 
missary, unfolding the paper. 

Mechanically Albert glanced over it. . 

“ Claudine assassinated ! ” he cried. 

Then very low, but distinct enough to be 
heard by the commissary, by one of the 
officers, and by Pere Tabaret, he added, — 

“ I am lost ! ” 

While the commissary was making the for- 
mal inquiries, which immediately follow all 
arrests, the officers spread through the apart- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


77 


ment, and proceeded to a searching exam- 
ination of them : they had reoeived orders 
to obey Pere Tabaret ; and the old fellow 
guided them in their researches, made them 
ransack drawers and closets, and move the 
furniture. They seized quite a number 
of articles belonging to the viscount, — 
papers, manuscripts, and a very voluminous 
correspondence ; but it was with especial 
delight that Pere Tabaret put his hands on 
certain articles, which were carefully de- 
scribed in order in the official report. 

1. In the first room, — a waiting-room, 
hung with all sorts of weapons, — behind 
a sofa, a broken foil. This foil had a pe- 
culiar handle, and was unlike those com- 
monly sold. It bore the count’s coronet, 
with the initials A. C. It had been broken 
at about the middle; and the end could 
not be found. When asked, the viscount 
declared that he could give no account as to 
what had become of the missing end. 

2. In the dressing-room, pantaloons of 
black cloth still wet, bearing stains of mud 
or dirt. All one side was covered with 
greenish moss, as if the wearer had climbed 
over a wall. In front, there were numerous 
rents ; and near the knee was one ten centi- 
metres long. The aforesaid pantaloons had 
not been hung up in the Wardrobe, but ap- 
peared to have been hidden between two 
large trunks full of clothing. 

3. In the pocket of the above-described 
pantaloons were found a pair of pearl gray 
gloves. The palm of the right hand glove 
showed a large greenish stain, produced by 
crass or moss. The end of the fingers 
Sad been worn by rubbing. Upon the 
back of both gloves, scratches were noticed, 
evidently made by finger-nails. 

4. Two pairs of boots, one of which, 
well cleaned, were still damp; an umbrella 
recently wetted, the end of which was 
still covered with white mud. 

5. In a large room, called “ the library,” 
a box of cigars of the trabucos brand, and 
upon the mantle a number of cigar-holders 
in amber and meerschaum. 

The last article noted down, Pere Taba- 
ret approached the commissary of police. 

« I have every thing I could desire,” he 
whispered. 

“ And I have finished, too,” replied the 
commissary. “ This chap here don’t seem 
to know exactly how to act. Do you see ? 
He gave in on the first attack. I ^suppose 
you 'will call it lack of experience.” 

“Before the day is over,” replied the 
amateur detective in a whisper, “ he won’t 
be quite so crest-fallen. But now, suddenly 
awakened, you know— Always arrest 


them early in the morning ; take them in 
bed before they are awake.” 

“ I have spoken with two or three of the 
servants. They tell some singular stories.” 

“ Very well : we shall see. But I must 
hurry and find the judge of inquiry, who 
will be impatient.” 

Albert began to revive a little from the 
stupor into which he had been plunged on 
the entrance of the commissary of police. 

“ Monsieur,” he asked, “ will you permit 
me to say a few words in your presence to 
the Count de Commarin ? I am a victim 
of some mistake, which will be quickly 
remedied.” 

“ It’s always a mistake,” muttered Pere 
Tabaret. 

“ What you ask is impossible,” replied 
the commissary. “I have special orders 
of the strictest sort. You cannot ‘hence- 
forth communicate with a living soul. A 
carriage is in waiting below. Will you 
descend ? ” 

In crossing the vestibule, Albert noticed 
great agitation among the servants. 
They all seemed to have lost their senses. 
Denis gave orders in a sharp, imperative 
tone. Then he thought he heard that the 
Count de Commarin had been struck with 
apoplexy. After that, he remembered 
nothing. 

They almost carried him to the carriage ; 
which drove off as fast as the two little 
horses could go. A more rapid vehicle 
bore away Pere Tabaret. 


CHAPTER X. 

The visitor who risks himself in the laby- 
rinth of galleries and stairways in the 
palais de justice, and mounts to the third 
story in the left wing, will find himself in a 
long, low-studded gallery, badly lighted by 
narrow windows, and pierced at short inter- 
vals by little doors, like a hall at the minis- 
try or at a lodging house. 

Tt is a place difficult to view calmly, the 
imagination makes it appear so dark and 
dismal. 

It needs a Dante to compose an inscrip- 
tion to place above the doors which lead 
from it. From morning to night, the flag- 
stones resound under the heavy tread of the 
gendarmes, who accompany the prisoners. 
You can scarcely recall any thing but sad 
figures there. There are the parents or 
friends of the accused, the witnesses, the 
detectives. In this gallery, far from the 
sight of men, the judicial curriculum is 
gone through with. 


78 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Each one of the little doors, which has 
its number -painted over it in black, opens 
into the office of a judge of inquiry. All 
the rooms are just alike : if you see one, 
you have seen them all. They have noth- 
ing terrible nor sad in themselves ; and yet 
it is difficult to enter one of them without 
a shudder. They are cold. The walls all 
seem moist with the tears which have been 
shed there. You shudder, at thinking of 
the avowals wrested from criminals, of the 
confessions broken with sobs murmured 
there. 

In the office of the judge of inquiry, 
Justice clothes herself in none of that ap- 
parel which she afterwards dons in order 
to strike fear into the masses. She is still 
simple, and almost disposed to kindness. 
She says to the prisoner, — 

“ I have strong reasons for thinking you 
guilty ; but prove to me your innocence, 
and I will release you.” 

On entering one of these rooms, a 
stranger would imagine that he had got 
into a cheap shop by mistake. The furni- 
ture is of the most primitive sort, as is the 
.case in all places where important matters 
are transacted. Of what consequence are 
surroundings to the judge hunting down the 
author of a crime, or to the accused who is 
defending his life ? 

A desk full of documents for the judge, 
a table for the clerk, an arm-chair, and one 
or two chairs besides comprise the entire 
furniture of the antechamber of the court 
of assize. The walls are hung with green 
paper ; the curtains are green, and the 
floors are carpeted in the same color. 
Monsieur Daburon’s office bore the number 
fifteen. 

At nine o’clock in the morning, he had 
arrived, and was waiting. His course re- 
solved upon, he lost not an instant, under- 
standing as well as Pere Tabaret the neces- 
sity of rapid action. So he had already had 
an interview with the imperial solicitor, 
and had consulted the officers of the police 
judiciary. 

Besides the warrant issued against Al- 
bert, he had despatched summons of imme- 
diate appearance, before him, to the Count 
de Commarin, Madame Gerdy, Noel, and 
some of Albert’s servants. 

He thought it essential to examine all 
these before calling in the prisoner. 

Under his orders, ten detectives were 
sent into the country ; and he himself sat 
in his office, like a general of an army, who 
sends off his aides-de-camp to begin the 
battle, and who hopes for victory through 
his combinations. 

Olten, at this same hour, he had sat in 


this same office, under conditions almost 
identical. A crime had been committed : 
he believed he had discovered the criminal; 
he had given orders for his arrest. Was 
not that his duty ? But he had never ex- 
perienced this anxiety of mind which dis- 
turbed him now. Many a time had he 
issued warrants of arrest, without having 
nearly half the proofs which shone out so 
clearly in the present case. He kept 
repeating this to himself ; and yet he could 
not quiet this dreadful anxiety, which 
would not give him a moment’s rest. 

He wondered why his people were so 
long in making their appearance. He 
walked up and down the room, counting 
the minutes, drawing out his watch three 
times within the quarter of an hour, to 
compare it with the clock. Hearing a step 
in the gallery, nearly deserted at that hour, 
he involuntarily moved near the door, 
stopped and listened. 

Some one knocked. It was his clerk, 
late this morning. 

There was nothing particular in this 
man ; he was long rather than large, and 
very slim. His gait was precise, his gest- 
ures methodical ; his face was as impassive 
as if it had been cut out of a piece of yel- 
low wood. 

He was thirty-four years of age, and 
since thirty had taken minutes of examina- 
tion for four judges of inquiry in succes- 
sion. It is said that he could hear, with- 
out moving a muscle, the most utter absurdi- 

O 7 

ties. 

An ingenious writer has thus defined a 
clerk, “A pen for the judge of inquiry; a 
personage who is dumb but speaks, who is 
blind but writes, who is deaf but hears.” 
This man answered the definition. His 
name was Constant. 

He bowed to the judge, and excused 
himself for his tardiness. He had been 
busy with his book-keeping, which he did 
every morning; and he had got so inter- 
ested in it that his wife had had to remind 
him of the way time was passing. 

“ You are still in good time,” said Dab- 
uron ; “ but we shall have plenty of work : 
so you had better get your papers ready.” 

Five minutes later, the usher introduced 
Noel Gerdy. 

He entered with an easy manner, like 
an advocate who had considerable practice 
in the palais, and who knew its ways. He 
in no way resembled, this morning, the 
friend of Pere Tabaret ; still less could he 
have been recognized as the lover of 
Madame Juliette. He was entirely another 
being, or rather he had resumed his cus- 
tomary role. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


79 


It was now the official who appeared, — 
one who recognized his confreres, esteemed 
his friends, was beloved in the circle of his 
acquaintance. 

From his firm step, his placid face, one 
would never imagine that, after an evening 
of emotion and excitement, after a stolen 
visit to his mistress, he had passed the 
night by the pillow of a dying woman, and 
that woman his mother, or at least the one 
who had filled his mother’s place. 

What a contrast between him and the 
judge ! 

The judge had not slept either ; and 
you could see lack of rest in his feebleness, 
in his anxious look, in the dark circles 
about his eyes. The front of his shirt was 
all rumpled ; not even his cuffs were fresh. 
Occupied with the course of events, the 
soul had forgotten the body. Noel’s well- 
shaved chin, on the contrary, rested upon 
an irreproachably white cravat ; his collar 
had not a wrinkle ; his hair and his whisk- 
ers were most carefully brushed. He 
bowed to Daburon, and held out his sum- 
mons. 

“ You summoned me, monsieur,” he said ; 
“ and I am at your orders.” 

The judge of inquiry had met the young 
advocate several times in the lobbies of the 
palais; and he recognized him at sight. 
He remembered having heard this Gerdy 
spoken of as a man of talent and promise, 
whose reputation was fast rising. He 
therefore welcomed him as a fellow-work- 
man, and invited him to be seated. 

The preliminaries common in the exam- 
inations of all witnesses ended ; the name, 
surname, age, place of business, and so on 
registered, the judge, who had followed 
his clerk with his eyes while he was writ- 
ing, turned to Noel. 

“Do you know, Monsieur Gerdy,” he 
began, “ the business on account of which 
you are troubled with appearing before 
me ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, the assassination of the 
poor old woman at Jonchere.” 

“ Precisely,” replied Daburon. 

Then, calling to mind his promise to 
Pere Tabaret, he added, — 

“ If Justice has summoned you so 
promptly, it is because we have found your 
name often mentioned in the papers of the 
Widow Lerouge.” 

“ I am not surprised at that,” replied the 
advocate : “ we have been much interested 
in this good woman, who was my nurse; 
and I know that Madame Gerdy wrote to 
her quite often.” 

“ Very well ; you can then give me some 
information about her.” 


“It will be, I fear, monsieur, very in- 
complete. I know very little about this 

oor Mother Lerouge. I was taken from 

er at a very early age ; and, since I have 
been a man, I have thought little about 
her, except to send her occasionally a little 
aid.” 

“ You have never visited her ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! I have gone there many 
times ; but I remained only a few moments 
each time. Madame Gerdy, who has often 
seen her, and to whom she entrusted all 
her affairs, could enlighten you much bet- 
ter than I, however.” 

“ I expect,” said the judge, “ to see 
Madame Gerdy here; she must have re- 
ceived a summons.” 

“ She has, monsieur ; but it will be im- 
possible for her to appear : she is ill.” 

“ Seriously ? ” 

“ So seriously that you will be obliged, I 
think, to give up all expectations from her 
testimony. She is attacked with a disease 
which, in the words of my friend, Dr. 
Herve, never pardons. It is something 
like inflammation of the brain, — encepha- 
lite, if I am not mistaken. It may be that 
her life will be saved ; but she will never 
recover her reason. If she does not die, 
she will be insane.” 

Daburon appeared much troubled. 

“ This is very vexatious,” he muttered. 
“ And you think, my dear sir, that it will 
be impossible to obtain any thing from 
her ? ” 

“ It is useless even to hope for it. She 
has completely lost her reason. She was, 
when I left her, in such a state of utter 
prostration that I fear she cannot live 
through the day.” 

“ And when was she attacked by this 
illness ? ” 

“ Yesterday evening.” 

“ Suddenly ? ” 

“Yes, monsieur, apparently, at least; 
though I myself think she has been suffer- 
ing from it for the last three weeks at 
least. But yesterday, on rising from din- 
ner, after having eaten but little, she took 
up a newspaper ; and, by a most unhappy 
chance, her eyes fell exactly upon the linos 
which told of this crime. All at once- she 
uttered a loud cry, fell back in her chair, 
and thence slipped to the floor, murmuring, 
‘ Oh, the unhappy man, the unhappy 
man ! ’ ” 

“ The unhappy woman, you mean ” 

“ No, monsieur. I spoke advisedly. 
Evidently the exclamation did not refer to 
my poor nurse.” 

Upon this reply, so important and yet 
made in the most unconscious tone, Dabu- 


80 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


ron raised his eyes to the witness. The 
advocate lowered his head. 

“ And then ? ” asked the judge, after a 
moment’s silence, during which he had 
taken a few notes. 

“ Those words, monsieur, were the last 
spoken by Madame Gerdy. Assisted by 
our servant, I carried her to her bed. The. 
doctor was called ; and, since then, she 
has not recovered consciousness. The 
doctor — ” 

“ It is well,” interrupted Daburon. “ Let 
us leave that for the present. Do you 
know, monsieur, any one who might have 
been at enmity with the Widow Lerouge? ” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ She had no enemies? Well, now tell 
me, does there exist to your knowledge 
any one having any interest whatever in 
the death of this poor woman ? ” 

The judge of inquiry, in putting this 
question, kept his eyes fixed on Noel’s, not 
allowing him to turn or lower his head. 

The advocate started, and seemed deep- 
ly moved. He was disconcerted ; he hesi- 
tated, as if a struggle was going on within 
him. 

Finally, in a voice which was by no 
means firm, he replied, — 

“ No, no one.” 

“ Is that really true ? ” demanded the 
judge, looking at him more sternly. “ You 
know no one whom this crime benefits, or 
whom it might benefit, — absolutely no 
one?” 

“ I know only one thing, monsieur,” 
replied Noel ; “ and that is, that, as far as I 
am concerned, it has caused me an irrepar- 
able injury.” 

“ At last,” thought Daburon, “ we have 
got at the letters ; and I have not betrayed 
poor Fere Tabaret. It would be too bad 
to cause the least trouble to that zealous 
and invaluable man.” 

“ An injury to you, my dear sir ? ” he 
replied ; “ you will, I hope, explain yourself.” 

The embarrassment, of which Noel had 
already given some signs, appeared now 
much more marked. 

“ I am aware, monsieur,” he replied, “ that 
I owe justice not merely the truth, but the 
whole truth ; but there are circumstances 
involved so delicate that the conscience of 
a man of honor sees danger to itself. Then 
it is very hard to be obliged to unveil these 
sad secrets, whose revelations may some- 
time — ” 

Daburon interrupted with a gesture. 
Noel’s sad tone impressed him. Knowing, 
beforehand, what lie was about to hear, he 
was pained for the young advocate. He 
turned to his clerk. 


“ Constant ! ” said he in a peculiar tone. 

This tone was evidently a signal ; for the 
long clerk arose methodically, put his pen 
behind his ear, and went out in his meas- 
ured tread. 

Noel appeared sensible of this delicacy. 
His face expressed the strongest gratitude : 
his look returned thanks. 

“ I am so much obliged to you, monsieur,” 
he said with suppressed warmth, “ for your 
generous kindness. What I have to say is 
very painful ; but, before you now, it will 
be scarcely an effort to speak.” 

“Fear nothing,” replied the judge; “I 
will only retain in your deposition, my dear 
sir, what seems to me absolutelv indispen- 
sable.” 

“ I feel scarcely master of myself, mon- 
sieur,” began Noel ; “ so pray pardon my 
emotion. If any words escape me that 
seem charged with bitterness, excuse them ; 
it will be involuntarily. Up to the past 
few days, I always believed that I was the 
offspring of illicit love. My history is 
short. I have been honorably ambitious. 
I have worked hard. He who has no 
name must make one, you know. I have 
passed a quiet life, retired and austere, 
as people must, who, starting at the foot of 
the ladder, wish to reach the top. I wor- 
shipped her whom I believed to be my 
mother ; and I felt convinced that she loved 
me in return. The stain of my birth had 
some humiliations attached to it ; but I 
despised them. Comparing my lot with 
that of so many others, I felt that I had 
more than common advantages. One day, 
Providence placed in my hands all'the let- 
ters which my father, the Count de Com- 
marin, had written to Madame Gerdy at 
the time of their liaison. On reading these 
letters, I was convinced that I was not what 
I had hitherto believed myself to be, — 
that Madame Gerdv was not my mother ! ” 

And, without giving Daburon time to 
reply, he laid before him the facts which, 
twelve hours before, he had recounted to 
Pore Tabaret. 

It was the same story, with the same cir- 
cumstances, the same abundance of precise 
and conclusive details; but the tone was 
entirely changed. Before the old detective, 
the young advocate had been emphatic and 
violent ; but now, in the office of the judge 
of inquiry, he had restrained and sobered 
his violent emotions. 

One might imagine that he adapted his 
manner to his auditor, wishing to produce 
the same effect on both, and using that 
method which would best accomplish his 
purpose. 

To Pere Tabaret, an ordinary mind, he 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


81 


used the exaggeration of anger ; to Dabu- 
ron, of superior intelligence, he used the 
exaggeration of restraint. 

While his mind rebelled against his 
unjust lot, he nevertheless seemed to bow, 
armed with resignation, before a blind 
fatality. 

With genuine eloquence and rare happi- 
ness of expression, he drew his situation 
on the day following the discovery, — his 
grief, his perplexity, his doubts. 

To support this moral certainty, there 
needed some positive testimony. Could he 
hope for this from the count or from Mad- 
ame Gerdy, both interested in concealing 
the truth V No. But he had counted upon 
that of his nurse, — the poor old woman 
who loved him, and who, near the close of 
her life, would be glad to free her con- 
science from this heavy load. She was 
dead now; and the letters became mere 
waste papers in his hands. 

Then he passed to his explanation with 
Madame Gerdy; and he .gave the judge 
even fuller details than he had given his 
old neighbor. 

She had, he said, at first utterly denied 
the substitution ; but he gave it to be un- 
derstood that, plied with questions, over- 
come by the evidence, in a moment of 
despair she had confessed all, declaring at 
the same time that she would retract and 
deny this confession, being resolved at all 
hazards that her son should preserve his 
position. 

From this scene, in the advocate’s judg- 
ment, the first attacks of the sickness, to 
which she had finally succumbed, might be 
dated. 

Noel then described his interview with 
the Viscount de Commarin. 

In his narrative, there slipped in a few 
inaccuracies, but so slight that it would be 
difficult to charge him with them. Besides, 
there was nothing in them at all unfavora- 
ble to Albert. 

He insisted, on the contrary, upon the ex- 
cellent impression which he had received of 
that young man. 

Albert had received the revelation with a 
certain defiance, it is true, but with a noble 
firmness at the same time, and, like a brave 
heart, was ready to bow before the justifi- 
cation of right. 

In fact, he drew an almost enthusiastic 
portrait of this rival, who had not been 
spoiled by prosperity, who had left him 
without a look of hatred, towards whom he 
felt himself drawn, and who after all was 
his brother. 

Daburon had listened to Noel with the 
most unremitting attention, without a word, 
6 


a movement, a frown, betraying his feelings. 
When he had ended, — 

“How, monsieur,” observed the judge, 
“could you have told me that, in your opin- 
ion, no one was interested in the death of 
the Widow Lerouge ? ” 

The advocate made no reply. 

“It seems to me that the Viscount de 
Commarin’s position has by it become al- 
most impregnable. Madame Gerdy is insane; 
the count will deny all ; your letters prove 
nothing. It is evident that the crime is 
of the greatest service to this young man, 
and that it was committed at a singularly 
favorable moment.’* 

“ O monsieur ! ” cried Noel, protesting 
with all his energy, “ this insinuation is 
dreadful.” 

The judge watched the advocate’s face 
narrowly. Was he speaking frankly, or 
was he but playing the generous role? 
Could it really be that he had never had 
any suspicion of this ? Noel did not flinch 
under the gaze, but almost immediately 
continued, — 

“ What reason could Albert have for 
trembling, fearing for his position ? I did 
not utter one word of threat, even indi- 
rectly. I did not present myself raging, 
like a robbed man, who demands that 
every thing which had been taken from 
him should be restored on the spot. I 
merely presented the facts to Albert, say- 
ing, ‘ Here, what do you think we ought to 
do°? Be the judge.’ ” 

“ And he asked you for time ? ” 

“Yes. I had just suggested his accom- 
panying me to the Widow Lerouge, whose 
testimony might dispel all doubts ; he did 
not seem to understand me. But he was 
well acquainted with her, having often vis- 
ited her with the count, who supplied her, I 
have since learned, liberally with money.” 

“ Does not this generosity appear to you 
very singular ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Can you explain why the viscount did 
not appear disposed to accompany you ? ” 

“ Certainly. He said that he wished, 
before all, to have an explanation with his 
father, who was then absent, but who 
would return within a few days. ” 

The truth, as all the world knows, and 
delights in proclaiming, has an accent 
which no one can mistake. Daburon 
had not the slightest doubt of his wit- 
ness’s good faith. Noel continued with 
an ingenuous candor, like an honest heart, 
which suspicion has never touched with its 
bat’s wing. 

“ The idea of treating at once with my 
father pleased me exceedingly. I consider 


82 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


it so much better to wash all one’s dirty 
linen at home, that I have never desired 
any thing but an amicable arrangement. 
With my hands full of proofs, I should still 
recoil from a public trial.” 

“ Would you not have brought an ac- 
tion ? ” 

“ Never, monsieur, at any price. Could 
I,” he added, proudly, “ on assuming my 
rightful name, begin by dishonoring it ? ” 

For once, Daburon could not conceal his 
sincere admiration. 

“ A most praiseworthy feeling, mon- 
sieur,” he said. 

“ I think,” replied Noel, “ it is but natu- 
ral. If the worse came to the worst, I had 
determined to leave my title with Albert. 
Certainly the name of Commarin is an 
illustrious one ; but I hope that, within ten 
years, mine will be equally so. I would 
have simply demanded a large pecuniary 
compensation. I possess nothing ; and I 
have often been hampered in my career by 
this miserable question of money. That 
which Madame Gerdy owed to the gener- 
osity of my father was almost entirely 
spent. My education had absorbed a great 
part of it ; and it was long before my pro- 
fession covered my expenses. Madame 
Gerdy and I lived very quietly ; but, unfor- 
tunately, though simple in her tastes, she 
lacked economy and system : and no one 
can imagine how great our expenses have 
been. But I have nothing to reproach 
myself wit h, whatever happens. From the 
commencement, I have kept my anger well 
under control ; and even now I bear no 
ill-will. On learning of the death of my 
nurse, though, I cast all my hopes into the 
sea.” 

“ You are wrong, my dear sir,” said the 
judge. “ I advise you to still hope. Per- 
haps, before the end is reached, you will 
yet enter into possession of your rights. 
Justice, I will not conceal from you, thinks 
she has found the assassin of the Widow 
Lerouge. At this moment, the Viscount 
Albert is doubtless under arrest.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Noel with a sort of 
stupor; “can it be true? I was, then, not 
mistaken, monsieur, in the meaning of your 
words. I dreaded to understand them.” 

“ You have not mistaken me, monsieur,” 
said Daburon. “ I thank you for you sin- 
cere, straightforward explanations; they 
have eased my task materially. To-mor- 
row, — for to-day my time is all taken up, 
— we will regularly take your deposition, 
at this same hour, if convenient to you. 
There is nothing more, I believe, except to 
ask you for the letters in your possession, 
and which are indispensable to me.” 


“ Within an hour, monsieur, you shall 
have them,” replied Noel. 

And he retired, after having, warmly ex- 
pressed his gratitude to the judge of in- 
quiry. 

Less preoccupied, the advocate per- 
ceived at the end of the gallery Pere Tab- 
aret, who had just arrived, eager and 
happy, like a bearer of good news as he 
was. 

His carriage had scarcely stopped before 
the gate of the palais de justice before he 
was in the court, and rushing towards the 
porch. To see him jumping more nimbly 
than a fifth rate lawyer’s clerk up the steep 
flight of stairs leading to the judge’s office, 
you would never believe that he had been 
years on the shady side of fifty. Even he 
doubted the fact. He did not remember 
having passed the dark line : he had 
never felt so fresh, so agile, in such spirits ; 
he had springs of steel in his limbs. 

He crossed the gallery in two jumps, and 
burst like a cannon shot into the judge’s 
apartment, hustling against the methodical 
clerk in the rudest of ways, without even 
asking his pardon. 

“ Caught I ” he cried, while yet on the 
threshold, “ caught, nipped, squeezed, 
strung, trapped, locked ! We have got 
our man.” 

Pere Tabaret, more ‘ Tirauclair’ than 
ever, gesticulated with such comical vehe- 
mence and such remarkable contortions 
that even the long clerk smiled ; for which, 
however, he took himself severely to task, 
on going to bed that night. 

But Daburon, still under the influence 
of Noel’s deposition, was shocked at this 
apparently unseasonable joy ; although he 
felt the safer for it. He looked severely at 
Pere Tabaret, saying, — 

“ Hush, monsieur ; be decent ; compose 
yourself.” 

At any other time, the old fellow would 
have been frightened at having deserved 
such a reprimand. Now it made no im- 
pression on him. 

“ I can’t be auiet,” he replied ; “ and I am 
proud of it. Never has any thing like it 
been seen. All that I predicted has been 
found. Broken foil, pearl gray gloves 
slightly frayed, cigar-holder; nothing is 
wanting. You shall have them, monsieur, 
and many more like them. I have a little 
system of my own, which appears by no 
means a bad one. Just see the triumph of 
my method of induction, which Gevrol 
ridiculed so. I’d give a hundred francs if 
he were only here now. But no : my Gev- 
rol wants to nab the man with the ear- 
rings ; he is capable of doing just that. He 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


83 


is a fine fellow, this Gevrol, a famous fel- 
low 1 How much do you give him a year 
for his skill*? ” 

“ Come, my dear Tabaret,” said the 
judge, as soon as he could get a word in, 
“ be serious, if you can, and let us proceed 
regularly.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” replied the old fellow, “ what 
good will it do V It is a clear case now. 
When they bring our man before you, show 
him simply the particles taken from the 
fingers of the victim side by side with his 
torn gloves; and you will overwhelm him. 
I wager that he will confess all, hie et nunc , 
— yes, I wager my head against his: al- 
though that’s pretty risky ; for he will get 
off yet! These milksops on the jury are 
just capable of according him extenuating 
circumstances. I’d give him extenuating 
circumstances. Ah ! these snails destroy 
justice ! Why, if all the world were of my 
mind, the punishment of these rascals 
wouldn’t take such a time 1 The moment 
they were captured, that moment they 
should be strung up. That’s my opinion.” 

Daburon resigned himself to this shower 
of words. When the old fellow’s excite- 
ment had cooled down a little, he simply 
began questioning him. He was even then 
at great tVouble to obtain the exact details 
of the arrest, — details which might con- 
firm the official report of the commissary 
of police. 

The judge appeared much surprised at 
hearing that Albert, at sight of the 
warrant, had exclaimed, “ I am lost ! ” 

“ That,” muttered he, “ is a terrible 
proof against him.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Pere Tabaret. “ In 
his ordinary state, he would never have 
allowed these words to escape him ; which 
in fact destroy him. It was because we 
arrested him when he was scarcely awake. 
He hadn’t been in bed, but was lying in a 
troubled sleep, upon a sofa, when we ar- 
rived. I took good care to send a fright- 
ened servant in in advance, and then to 
follow closely upon him myself; because he 
was thus demoralized. All my calculations 
were made. But, never fear, he will find 
a plausible excuse for this fatal exclama- 
tion. By the way, I should add that we 
found on the floor, near by, last evening’s 
‘ Gazette de France ’ all rumpled, which 
contained the report of the assassination. 
This is the first time that a piece of news in 
the papers ever helped to nab a criminal.” 

“Yes,” murmured the judge, deep in 
thought, — “ves, you are a valuable man, 
Tabaret.” Then, louder, he added, “ I am 
thoroughly convinced ; for Noel Gerdy has 
just this moment left me.” 


“ You have seen Noel,” cried the old 
fellow. 

On the instant all his proud self-satis- 
faction disappeared. A cloud of anxiety, 
like a veil, spread over his face, and eclipsed 
his joy. 

“ Noel here,” he repeated ; then timidly 
added, “ and does he know ? ” 

“Nothing,” replied Daburon. “I had 
no need of bringing you in. Besides, had 
I not promised absolute secrecy ? ” 

“ Ah, that’s all right,” cried Pere Taba- 
ret. “ And what do you think of Noel ? ” 

“ His is, I am sure, a noble, worthy heart,” 
said the magistrate, — “ a nature both strong' 
and tender. The sentiments which I heard 
him express here, and the genuineness of 
which it is impossible to doubt, manifested 
an elevation of soul, unhappily, very rare. 
Seldom in my life have I met with a man 
who so won mv sympathy from the first. 
I can well understand one’s pride in be- 
ing among his friends.” 

“ Just what I said ; he has precisely the 
same effect upon every one. I love him as 
though he were my own child ; and, what- 
ever happens, he is to inherit my entire 
fortune : yes, I intend leaving him every 
thing. My will is made, and in the hands 
of Baron, my notary. There is a legacy, 
too, for Madame Gerdy ; but I am going to 
scratch that out at once.” 

“ Madame Gerdy, Tabaret, will soon be 
beyond all need of worldly goods.” 

“ How, what do you mean ? Has the 
count — ” 

“ She is dying, and will hardly last 
through the day ; Monsieur Gerdy told me 
so himself.” 

“ Ah ! heavens ! ” cried the old fellow, 
“ what do you tell me ? dying ? Noel will 
go distracted ; but no : since she is not his 
mother, how can it affect him ? Dying ? 
I was so fond of her before this discov- 
ery. Poor humanity ! It seems as though 
all the accomplices in that great sin are 
passing away at the same time ; for I forgot 
to tell you, that, just as I was leaving the 
Hotel de Commarin, I heard a servant 
telling another that the count at the news 
of his son’s arrest had fallen in a fit of 
apoplexy.” 

“ That will be the worst of misfortunes 
for young Gerdy.” 

“ For Noel?” 

“ I had counted upon M. de Commarin’s 
testimony to recover for him all that he 
so well deserves. The count dead, the 
Widow Lerouge dead, Madame Gerdy dy- 
ing, or in any event insane, who then can 
tell us whether the plan detailed in these 
letters was ever carried into execution ? ” 


84 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ True,” murmured Pfcre Tabaret ; “ it is 
true 1 And I did not see it. What fatali- 
ty ! For I am not deceived ; I am certain 
that — ” 

He did not finish. Daburon’s office door 
opened ; and the Count de Commarin him- 
self appeared in the flesh, as stately as one 
of those old portraits which you might im- 
agine frozen in their gilded frames. 

The old gentleman signed with his hand ; 
and the two servants who had helped him 
up as far as the gallery, sustaining him on 
either side, retired. 


CHAPTER XL 

It was the Count de Commarin, or rather 
his shadow. His head, usually carried so 
high, fell upon his breast ; his figure was 
bent ; his eyes had no longer their accus- 
tomed fire ; his fair hands trembled. The 
extreme disorder of his dress rendered 
more striking still the change which had 
come over him. In one night, he had 
grown twenty years older. 

These robust old men resemble great 
trees, whose inner wood has crumbled 
away, and whose only life is in the bark 
without. 

They are apparently unshaken, they 
seem to set time at defiance ; yet one blast 
of wind casts them to the earth. This man, 
yesterday so proud of never having bent to 
a storm, was now completely prostrated. 
The pride of his name had constituted his 
entire strength ; that humbled, he seemed 
utterly overwhelmed. In him every thing 
gave way at once ; all his supports failed 
him at the same time. His cold, lifeless 
gaze revealed the dull stupor of his 
thoughts. He presented such an image of 
utter despair that the judge of inquiry 
shuddered at the sight, Tabaret looked 
frightened, and even the clerk seemed 
moved. 

“ Constant,” said Monsieur Daburon 
quickly, “go with Monsieur Tabaret, and 
see if there’s any news at the prefecture.” 

The clerk left the room, followed by the 
old man, who went away regretfully. The 
count had not noticed their presence ; he 
paid no attention to their departure. 

Daburon offered him a seat, which he 
accepted with a sad smile. “ I feel so 
weak,” said he ; “ you must excuse my sit- 
ting.” 

Apologies to an inferior magistrate! 
What an advance in civilization, when the 
nobility consider themselves subject to the 
Jaw, and bow to its decrees! It was far 


different when the Duchess of Bouillon 
mocked at parliament, when the haughty 
nobles that infested the reign of Louis 
XIV. treated with the greatest indignity the 
counsellor of the chambre d’ardente. All the 
world respects justice nowadays ; and an 
innocent man need fear but little, even 
when defended only by a simple, conscien- 
tious judge of inquiry. 

“ You are perhaps too unwell, count,” 
said the judge, “to give me the explana- 
tions I had hoped for.” 

“ I am better, thank you,” replied Mon- 
sieur de Commarin, “ than I have been since 
the terrible blow has fallen upon me. 
When I heard of the crime of which my 
son is accused, and of his arrest, I was 
stunned. I believed myself strong ; I find 
myself a poor, weak old man. My ser- 
vants thought me dead. Would that I 
were. The strength of my constitution, 
my physician tells me, was all that saved 
me ; but I know that heaven has kept me 
alive, that I may drink to the bitter dregs 
this cup of humiliation.” 

He stopped for a moment, choked by a 
flow of blood that rose to his mouth. 

The judge of inquiry remained near the 
table, not daring to move. 

After a few moment’s rest, the count 
found relief, and proceeded. 

“ Unhappy man that I am ! did I not ex- 
pect it ? Every thing comes to light 
sooner or later. I am punished for my 
great sin, — pride. I thought myself out 
of reach of the thunderbolt ; and I have 
been the means of drawing down the storm 
upon my house. Albert an assassin ! A Vis- 
count de Commarin arraigned before a 
court of assize ! Ah, monsieur, punish 
me, too ; for I alone, and long ago, laid the 
foundation of this crime. A race bearing 
for fifteen centuries a spotless name closes 
with me in infamy.” 

Daburon considered the conduct of the 
Count de Commarin unpardonable, and 
had determined not to spare him. 

He had expected to meet a proud, 
haughty noble, almost unmanageable ; and 
he had resolved to humble his arrogance. 

Perhaps the harsh treatment he had re- 
ceived of old from the Marquise d’Ar- 
langes had given him, unconsciously, a 
slight grudge against aristocracy. 

He had vaguely thought of certain 
rather severe remarks, which were to over- 
come the old gentleman, and bring him to 
his senses. 

But, when he found in his presence a 
real penitent, his indignation changed to 
profound pity ; and he asked himself how 
lie could assuage his grief. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


85 


“ Write, monsieur,” continued the count, 
with an exultation of which he would not 
have been capable ten minutes before, — 
“ write my avowal with-holding nothing. I 
have no longer need of mercy nor of ten- 
derness. What have I to fear now? Is 
not my disgrace public ? Must not I, 
Count Rheteau de Commarin, appear before 
the tribunal, to proclaim the infamy of our 
house Y Ah ! all is lost now, even honor 
itself. Write, monsieur; my wish is, that 
all the world shall know that I am the most 
to blame. But they shall also know that 
already the punishment has been terrible, 
and that there is no new need of this last 
and mortal trial.” 

The count interrupted himself, to con- 
centrate and arrange his memory. 

He continued, then, with a firmer voice, 
adapting his tone to what he had to say, — 

“ When I was of Albert’s age, monsieur, 
my parents made me marry, in spite of my 
protestations, the noblest and purest of 
young girls. I made her the most unhappy 
of women. I could not love her. I cher- 
ished a most passionate love for a mistress, 
who had trusted herself to me, and whom 
I had loved for many years. I found her 
rich in beauty, purity, and soul. Her 
name was Valerie. My heart is dead and 
cold in me, monsieur ; but, ah ! when I 
pronounce that name, it calls me again to 
life. In spite of my marriage, I could not 
induce myself to part from her; nor did 
she wish it. The idea of a disgraceful sep- 
aration was revolting to her; for she loved 
me then. Our relations continued. 

“ My wife and my mistress became moth- 
ers at nearly the same time. This coinci- 
dence suggested to me the sad idea of 
sacrificing piy legitimate son to his less 
fortunate brother. I communicated this 
project to Valerie. To my surprise, she 
refused it with horror. Already the ma- 
ternal instinct had awakened in her ; she 
would not be separated from her child. I 
have preserved, as a memento of my folly, 
the letters which she wrote to me at this 
time. I have re-read them only this night. 
Ah ! how could I have refused both her argu- 
ments and her prayers ? It was because I 
was mad. She had the same presentiment 
of evil which weighs me down to-day. But 
I came to Paris. I had absolute control 
over her. I threatened to leave her, never 
to see her again. She yielded ; and my 
valet and Claudine Lerouge were charged 
with this wicked substitution. It is, 
therefore, the son of my mistress- who 
wears the title of Viscount de Commarin, 
and who was arrested but an hour since.” 

Daburon had not hoped for a declaration 


so clear, and above all so prompt. He 
secretly rejoiced for the young advocate, 
whose sentiments had so won upon him. 

“ So, count,” said he, “ you acknowledge 
that Noel Gerdy was the issue of your 
legitimate marriage, and that he alone is 
entitled to bear your name ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur. Alas ! I was then more 
delighted at the success of my project than 
I should have been over the most brilliant 
victory. I was so intoxicated with the joy of 
having my Valerie’s child there, near me, 
that I forgot every thing. I had trans- 
ferred to him a part of my love for his 
mother ; or, rather, I loved him still 
better, if that be possible. The thought 
that he would bear my name, that he 
would inherit all mv wealth, to the detri- 
ment of the other, transported me with 
delight. The other, I hated ; I could not 
even look upon him. I do not recollect 
having embraced him twice even. 

“ It was on this point alone that Valerie, 
who was very good, reproached me se- 
verely. 

“ One thing alone interfered wit h my 
happiness. The Countess de Commarin 
adored him whom she believed to be her 
son, and always wished to have him on her 
knees. I cannot express what I suffered at 
seeing my wife cover with kisses and cares- 
ses the child of my mistress. 

“ But I kept him from her as much as 
I could ; and she, poor girl ! not under- 
standing what was passing within me, im- 
agined that I was doing every thing to keep 
her son from loving her. She d-ied, mon- 
sieur, with this idea, which poisoned her 
last days. She died of sorrow ; but saint- 
like, without a complaint, without a mur- 
mur, pardon upon her lips and in her 
heart.” 

Much pressed for time, Daburon, how- 
ever, did not dare to interrupt the count, 
and ask him briefly for the immediate facts 
of the case. He knew that fever alone 
gave him this energy, to which a moment 
after might succeed the most complete 
prostration. He feared, if he stopped him 
for an instant, that he would not have 
strength enough to begin again. 

“ I had not,” continued the count, “ a 
tear for her. What had she been in my 
life ? A cause of sorrow and remorse. 
But the justice of God, in advance of man’s, 
took a terrible revenge. One day, I was 
warned that Valerie had deceived me, and 
had broken with me for a long time. I 
could not believe it at first; it seemed to 
me impossible, absurd. I would have 
sooner doubted myself than her. I had 
taken her from a garret, where she had 


86 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


worked sixteen hours to earn thirty sous : 
she owed every thing to me. Every thing 
had gone so smoothly in the past that her 
falseness was in some way repugnant to my 
reason. I could not induce myself to feel 
jealous. However, I inquired into the 
matter ; I watched her ; I even descended 
to setting a spy upon her. I had been 
told the truth. This unhappy girl had a 
lover, and had had him for more than ten 
years. He was a cavalry officer. He came 
to her house with every precaution. Usu- 
ally he departed about midnight : but some- 
times he came to pass the night, and in 
that case left in the early morning. 
Being stationed near Paris, he obtained 
leaves to visit it ; and, during these leaves, 
he remained shut up in her house without 
going out at all. One evening, my spies 
brought me word that he was there. I 
hastened to the house. My presence did 
not embarrass her. She received me as 
usual, throwing her arms about my neck. 
I thought that my spies had deceived me ; 
and I was going to tell her all, when I saw 
upon the piano a buckskin glove, such as is 
worn by soldiers. Not wishing a scene, 
and not knowing to what excess my anger 
might carry me, I took my departure with- 
out a word. I have never seen her since. 
She wrote to me. I did not open her let- 
ters. She attempted to force her way into 
my presence, but in vain : my servants 
had orders that they dared not break.” 

Could this be the Count de Commarin, 
celebrated for his haughty coldness, for his 
reserve, so full of disdain, who spoke thus, 
who opened his whole life without restric- 
tions, without reserve ? And to whom ? 
To a stranger. 

He was in one of those desperate states, 
allied to madness, when all reflection leaves 
us, when we must have some outlet to a too 
powerful emotion. 

What mattered this secret to him, so 
courageously carried for so many years ? 

He disburdened himself of it, like the 
miserable man, who, weighed down by a 
too heavy burden, casts it to the earth with- 
out caring where it falls, nor how it tempts 
the cupidity of the passers by. 

“ Nothing,” continued he, — “ no, noth- 
ing, can approach to what I then endured. 
My very heart-strings were bound up in 
that woman. She was like a part of my- 
self. In separating myself from her, it 
seemed to me that I was tearing away a 
part of my own flesh. I cannot tell what 
furious passions her memory stirred within 
me. I scorned her and longed for her 
with equal vehemence. I hated her, and I 
loved her. And, to this day, I have re- 


tained her detestable image. Nothing can 
make me forget her. I have never con- 
soled myself for her loss. And that is not 
all ; terrible doubts about Albert occurred 
tome. Was I really his father? Can you 
understand what my punishment was, when 
I said to myself, ‘ I have perhaps sacrificed 
my own child to that of an utter stranger/ 
This thought made me hate the youth. To 
my great love, there succeeded an uncon- 
querable repulsion. How often, in those 
times, I struggled against an insane desire 
to murder him ! Since then, I have learned 
to subdue my aversion ; but I have never 
completely mastered it. Albert, monsieur, 
has been the best of sons. Nevertheless, 
there has always been an icy barrier be- 
tween us, which he could never explain. 
Often I have been upon the point of pre- 
senting myself before the tribunals, of 
avowing all, of reclaiming my' legitimate 
heir ; but regard for my rank has prevented 
me. I recoiled before the scandal. I 
feared the ridicule or disgrace that would 
attach itself to my name ; and yet I have 
not been able to save it from infamy.” 

The voice of the old gentleman was 
silent, after these words. With a desolate 
movement, he buried his face in both hands. 
Two great tears, almost immediately dry, 
rolled silently down his wrinkled cheeks. 

In the mean time, the door of the study 
opened half way, and the head of the long 
clerk appeared. 

Daburon signed to him to enter, and 
then addressing Monsieur de Commarin, 
said, in a voice that compassion made the 
more gentle, — 

“ Monsieur, in the eyes of heaven, as in 
the eyes of society, you have committed a 
great sin; and the results, you .see, are the 
most disastrous. This sin it is your duty to 
repair as much as lies in your power.” 

“ Such is my intention, monsieur, and, 
shall I say, my dearest wish.” 

“You doubtless understand me,” con- 
tinued Daburon. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied the old man, — 
“yes, I understand you.” 

“It will doubtless be a consolation for 
you,” added the jud.ge, “to learn that 
Noel Gerdy is worthy in all respects of the 
high position that you are going to restore 
to him. You will certainly acknowledge 
that his character is of the greater worth, 
from his having raised himself by his own 
exertions. He is a man of great talent, 
better and worthier than any one I know. 
You will have a son worthy of his ances- 
tors. And no one of your family will re- 
gret, monsieur, that the Viscount Albert is 
not a Commarin.” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


87 


“No,” replied the count quickly, “ a 
Commarin would have died by this time ; 
and blood washes all away.” 

This remark of the old gentleman set the 
judge of inquiry to thinking profoundly. 

“Are you then sure,” said he, “of" the 
viscount’s guilt? ” 

M. de Commarin gave the judge a look 
of surprise. 

“ I only arrived in Paris yesterday eve- 
ning,” he replied ; “ and I am entirely 
ignorant of all that has occurred. I only 
know that they would not proceed on trifles 
against a man of Albert’s rank. If you 
have arrested him, it is quite evident that 
you have something more than suspicion 
against him, — that you possess positive 
proofs.” 

Daburon bit his lips, and, for a moment, 
could not conceal a feeling of displeasure. 
He had neglected his usual prudence, had 
moved too quickly. He had believed the 
count’s mind entirely overthrown ; and 
now he had aroused his defiance. All the 
skill in the world could not repair such an 
unfortunate mistake. 

As the result of an examination, from 
which much had been expected, all his 
plans might be overturned. 

A witness on his guard is a witness no 
longer to be depended upon ; he trembles 
for fear of compromising himself, measures 
the weight of the questions, and hesitates 
as to his answers. 

On the other hand, justice, in the form 
of a magistrate, is disposed to doubt every 
thing, to imagine every thing, and to sus- 
pect all the world. 

How far was the count a stranger to the 
crime at Jonchere? Evidently, several 
days before it, although doubting Albert’s 
paternity, he had made great efforts to re- 
tain his son in his place. His story showed 
that he thought his honor concerned in his 
retention. 

Was he not a man to suppress, by every 
means, an inconvenient witness ? Thus 
reasoned Monsieur Daburon. 

And yet he could not clearly see how 
the Count de Commarin’s interests and his 
restless uncertainty were concerned in the 
matter. His whole life opposed it. 

“ Monsieur,” he began again more stern- 
ly, “ when were you informed of the dis- 
covery of your secret ? ” 

“ Last evening, by Albert himself. He 
spoke to me of this sad story, and of a 
deed which I now seek in vain to explain, 
unless — ” 

The count stopped short, as if his rea- 
son had been struck by the improbability 
of the supposition which he had formed. 


“ Unless ? — ” inquired the magistrate 
quickly. 

“ Monsieur,” said the count, without re- 
plying directly, “ Albert will be a hero, if 
he be not the criminal.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the magistrate quickly, 
“ have you, then, reason to think him inno- 
cent? ” 

Daburon’s spite was so plainly visible in 
the tone of his words that Monsieur de 
Commarin could and ought to have seen 
the appearance of a wicked intention. He 
started, evidently offended, and righted 
himself by saying, — 

“ I am no more a witness now to dis- 
charge than I was a moment ago to con- 
demn. I desire only to make justice clear, 
in accordance with my duty.” 

“ Confound it,” said Daburon to himself, 
“ here I have offended him again ! Is this 
the way to do things, making mistake 
after mistake ? ” 

“ The facts are these,” said the count. 
“ Yesterday, after having spoken to me of 
these cursed letters, Albert, began to set a 
trap to discover the truth, — for he still 
had doubts, Noel Gerdy not having ob- 
tained the complete correspondence. An 
animated discussion arose between us. 
He declared his resolution to give way to 
Noel. I, on the other hand, was re- 
solved to compromise, cost what it might. 
Albert dared to oppose me. All my efforts 
to convert him to my views were in vain. 
Vainly I tried to touch those cords in his 
breast which I had supposed the most sen- 
sitive. He firmly repeated his intention to 
retire in spite of me, declaring himself sat- 
isfied, if I would consent to allow him a 
modest competence. I again attempted to 
shake him, by showing him that his mar- 
riage, so ardently looked forward to for two 
years, would be broken off by this blow. 
He replied that he felt sure of the constancy 
of his fiancee, Mademoiselle d’Arlanges.” 

This name fell like a thunderbolt upon 
the cars of the judge of inquiry. He fell 
back in his chair. 

Feeling that he was turning crimson, he 
took, at a venture, from his table a large 
bundle of papers, and, to hide his emotion, 
raised it to his face, as if he was trying to 
decipher an illegible word. 

He began to understand the difficult 
duty with which he was charged. He 
seemed troubled like a child, having neith- 
er his usual calmness nor foresight. He 
felt that he might commit the most serious 
blunder. Why had he undertaken this in- 
quiry ? Could he keep himself a free 
arbiter ? Did he think his will would be 
impartial ? 


88 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Gladly would he have turned over to an- 
other the further examination of the count ; 
but could he ? His conscience told him 
that this would be another blunder. He 
renewed, then, the painful examination. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ the sentiments 
expressed by the viscount are very fine, 
without doubt ; but did he not speak to 
you of the Widow Lerouge ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the count, who appeared 
suddenly to brighten, as by the remem- 
brance of some unnoticed circumstances, — 
“ yes, certainly.” 

“ He might have shown you that the 
testimony of this woman would render a 
struggle with M. Gerdy impossible.” 

“ Precisely, monsieur ; and, aside from 
the question of duty, it was upon that that 
he based his refusal to follow my wishes.” 

“ It will be necessary, count, for you to 
repeat to me very exactly all that passed 
between the viscount and yourself. Ap- 
peal, then, I beseech you, to your memory, 
and strive to repeat his words as nearly as 
possible.” 

Monsieur de Commarin obeyed without 
much difficulty. For a moment, a salutary 
reaction had worked upon him. His blood, 
excited by the persistence of the examina- 
tion, renewed its accustomed course. His 
brain redeemed itself. 

The scene of last evening was admira- 
bly presented to his memory, even to the 
most minute details. The sound of Albert’s 
words were again in his ears ; he saw again 
his expressive gestures. 

As his story advanced, brilliant with 
clearness and precision, Daburon’s convic- 
tion was confirmed. 

The judge turned against Albert precise- 
ly what had the day before won the count’s 
admiration. 

“ What wonderful acting ! ” thought he. 
“ Tabaret is decidedly possessed of second 
sight. To his inconceivable boldness, this 
young man joins an infernal cleverness. 
The genius of crime itself inspires him. 
It is a miracle that we have been able to 
unmask him. How well every thing was 
foreseen and arranged ! How marvelous- 
ly this scene with his father was brought 
about, in order to bring doubt in case°of 
discovery ! There is not a sentence which 
lacks a purpose, which does not tend to 
ward off suspicion. What refinement of 
•execution ! What over-anxious care 
:for details ! Nothing failed him, not even 
■the great devotion of his fiancee. Had he 
:really informed Claire ? Probably I might 
ibe sure of this ; but I should have to re- 
turn to her, to again speak to her. Poor 
child 1 to love such a man ! But he will 


now appear before her in his true colors. 
This discussion, too, with the count was 
his plank of safety. It committed him to 
nothing, and gained time. He would of 
course raise objections, since they would 
only end by binding himself the more firmly 
in his father’s heart. He could thus make 
a merit of his compliance, and would ask 
a reward for his helplessness. And, when 
Noel should return to the charge, he would 
find against him the count, who would 
boldly deny every thing, politely refuse 
him ; and he would, of course, be driven 
out as an impostor and forger.” 

It was a strange coincidence, but yet 
easily explained, that M. de Commarin, 
while telling his story, arrived precisely at 
the same ideas with the judge, at conclu- 
sions almost identical. 

In fact, why this persistence on the sub- 
ject of Claudine ? He remembered plain- 
ly, that, in his anger, he had said to his 
son, “ Mankind is not in the habit of doing 
such fine actions for its own satisfaction.” 
This great disinterestedness now explained 
itself. 

“ I thank you, monsieur,” said Daburon : 
“I will say nothing positive; but Justice 
has weighty reasons to believe that, in the 
scene which you have just reported to me, 
the Viscount Albert played a part previous- 
ly arranged.” 

“ And well arranged,” murmured the 
count ; “ for he deceived me, me 1 ” 

He was interrupted by the entrance of 
Noel, who carried a shagreen portfolio, 
ornamented with black figures, under his 
arm. 

The advocate bowed to the old gentle- 
man, who in’ his turn arose and retired 
politely to the end of the room. 

“ Monsieur,” said Noel, in an undertone 
to the judge, “ you will find all the letters 
in this portfolio. I must ask permission' to 
leave you at once, as Madame Gerdy’s con- 
dition grows hourly more alarming.” 

Noel had raised his voice a little, in pro- 
nouncing these last words ; and the count 
heard them. He started, and needed great 
effort to restrain the question which leaped 
from his heart into his mouth. 

“ You must give me a moment, my dear 
fellow,” said the judge. 

Daburon then quitted his chair, and, 
taking the advocate by the hand, led him 
to the count. 

“Monsieur de Commarin,” said he, “I 
have the honor of presenting to you M. Noel 
Gerdy.” 

M. de Commarin was probably expect- 
ing some scene of this kind; for not a 
muscle of his face moved : he remained per- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


89 


fectly calm. Noel, on his side, was like a 
man who had received a blow on the head ; 
he staggered, and was obliged to seek sup- 
port from the back of a chair. 

Then these two, father and son, stood 
face to face, apparently deep in thought, 
in reality examining one another with dark 
distrust, each striving to gather something 
of the other’s thought. 

Daburon had hoped much from this coup 
de theatre , which he had planned since the 
count’s arrival. He had expected to bring 
about, by this abrupt presentation, an 
intensely pathetic scene, which would not 
give his clients time for reflection. The 
count would open his arms : Noel would 
throw himself into them ; and this reconcil- 
iation would only await the sanction of the 
tribunals, to be complete. 

The coldness of one, the embarrassment 
of the other, disconcerted his plans. He 
believed a more pressing intervention 
necessary. 

“ Count,” said he reproachfully, “ remem- 
ber that Monsieur Gerdy is your legitimate 
son.” 

M. de Commarin made no reply ; to 
judge from his lack of emotion, he had not 
heard. 

Then Noel, summoning all his courage, 
ventured to speak first, — 

“ Monsieur,” he stammered, “ I only 
wish — ” 

“ You may call me your father,” inter- 
rupted the old man, in a tone which cer- 
tainly had nothing of emotion or tenderness 
in it. Then addressing the judge, — 

“ Can I be of any further use ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Only to hear your deposition read,” 
replied Daburon, “ and to sign it, if you 
find it taken down correctly. You may 
proceed, Constant,” he added. 

The. long clerk made a half turn in his 
chair, and commenced. He had a peculiar 
way of sputtering over what he had 
scrawled. He read very quickly, all at 
one dash, without paying attention to 
periods, commas, questions, or replies, as 
long as his breath lasted. When he could 
go on no longer, he took a breath, and went 
on as before. Unconsciously, he reminded 
you of those divers, who npw and then 
raise their heads above water,' obtain a sup- 
ply of air, and' disappear again. Noel 
was the only one to listen attentively to 
the reading, which was to unpractised ears 
unintelligible. It apprised him of things 
which it was important for him to know. 
At last Constant pronounced the formula, 
en foi de quoi , &c., which end all official 
reports in France. 


He handed the pen to the count, who 
signed without hesitation. The old gentle- 
man then turned towards Noel. 

“ I am not very strong,” he said ; “ you 
must, therefore, my son,” (this word was 
emphasized) “ help your father to his car- 
riage.” 

The young advocate advanced eagerly. 
His face brightened, while he passed the 
count’s arm through his own. 

When they were gone, Daburon could 
not resist an impulse of curiosity. He 
hastened to the door, which he opened ; 
and, keeping his body ki the background, 
that he might not himself be seen, he ex- 
tended his head, examining the gallery 
with a glance. 

The count and Noel had not yet reached 
the end. They were going slowly. The 
count seemed to drag heavily and pain- 
fully along ; the advocate took short steps, 
bending lightly on the side towards the 
count; and all his movements were 
marked with the greatest solicitude. The 
judge retained his position until they were 
lost to view by a turn in the gallery. 
Then he went back to his place, heaving a 
deep sigh. 

“ At least,” said he, “ I have helped to 
make one happy person. The day will not 
be utterly wasted.” 

But he had no time to give way to such 
thoughts, the hours flew by so quickly. 
He had to examine Albert as soon as pos- 
sible; and he had still to receive the de- 
position of many of the servants of the 
Count de Commarin’s house, and to re- 
ceive the report of the commissary of 
police charged with the arrest. 

The above-named domestics, who had 
waited their turn a long while, were with- 
out delay brought in, one after the other. 

They had but little information to give ; 
but there were as many new charges as 
there were witnesses. It was easy to see 
that all believed their master guilty. 

Albert’s conduct since the beginning of 
this fatal week, his least words, his most 
insignificant movements, were reported, 
commented upon, and explained. 

The man who lives in the midst of thirty 
servants is like an insect in a glass box 
under the magnifying glass of a naturalist. 
No one of his acts escape attention; 
scarcely can he have a secret ; and, if they 
cannot divine what it is, they at least know 
he has one. From morning until night, he 
is the point of observation for thirty pairs 
of eyes, interested in studying the slight- 
est change in his face. 

The judge had, therefore, an abundance 
of frivolous details ; which at the time they 


90 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


occurred meant nothing, but the most 
trifling of which seemed all at once to the 
count to become a matter of life and death. 

By combining these depositions, reconcil- 
ing them, and putting them in order, 
Daburon could follow his prisoner hour by 
hour to his going out on Sunday morning. 

On that Sunday morning, the viscount 
had given orders that all visitors should be 
informed that he had gone into the coun- 
try. From that moment, the whole house- 
hold perceived that something had gone 
wrong, and annoyed him. 

He did not leave his study on that day, 
but had had his dinner brought to him. 
He eat very little, — only some soup, and a 
bit of fish with white wines. While eat- 
ing, he had said to Monsieur Contois, the 
butler, “ Remind the cook to spice this 
sauce a little more, in future,” and then 
added in a low tone, “ Ah ? to what pur- 
pose ? ” In the evening he dismissed the ser- 
vants from all duties, saying, “ Go, and 
amuse yourselves.” He expressly warned 
them not to enter his room until he rang.- 

On Monday, he did not rise until noon, 
although usually an early riser. He com- 
plained of a violent headache, and of weak- 
ness. He took, however, a cup of tea. He 
ordered out his coupe but almost immedi- 
ately countermanded the order. His valet 
de chambre, Lubin, heard him say, “It is 
too late to hesitate ; ” and a few moments 
after, “ I must finish it.” Shortly after- 
wards, he began writing. 

Lubin had been instructed to carry a let- 
ter to Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlanges, with 
orders to deliver it to herself or to Mad- 
emoiselle Smith, the governess only. A sec- 
ond letter, with two checks of a thousand 
francs, were intrusted to Joseph, to be car- 
ried to the club. Joseph no longer remem- 
bered the person to whom it was ad- 
dressed : but it was not a titled name. 

That evening, Albert took only, a little 
soup, and remained shut up in his room. 
He was up early on Tuesday. He walked 
up and down the house, like a soul in pain, 
or like one who awaited with impatience 
something which had not arrived. Upon 
his going into the garden, the gardener 
asked his advice concerning a la\tfn. He 
replied, “ You may consult the count upon 
his return.” 

He breakfasted precisely as on the day 
before. About one o’clock, he went down 
to the stables, and, with an air of sadness, 
he caressed his favorite mare, Norma. 
Stroking her neck, he said, “ Poor-creature ! 
poor old girl ! ” 

At three o’clock, a messenger arrived 
with a letter. The viscount took it, and 


J opened it hastily. He was then opposite 
the flower garden. Two footmen heard 
him distinctly say, “ She cannot resist.” 
He entered the house, and burned the let- 
ter in the large fire-place in the entry. 

As he was sitting down to dinner, at six 
o’clock, two of his friends, Monsieur de 
Courtivois and the Marquis of Chouze, 
insisted upon seeing him, in spite of all 
orders. They would not be refused. 
These gentlemen were anxious to carry 
him away to a party of pleasure ; but 
he refused, saying that he had a very im- 
portant appointment. 

At dinner, he ate a little more than on 
the former days. He asked the butler also 
for a bottle of Chateau Lafitte, which he 
drank entirely. While taking his coffee, 
he smoked a cigar in the dining-room, con- 
trary to the rules of the house. At half- 
past seven, according to Joseph and the 
two footmen, or at eight according to the 
porter and Lubin, the viscount went out 
on foot, taking with him an umbrella. He 
returned at two o’clock in the morning, 
and dismissed at once his valet (le chambre , 
whose duty it was to remain up for him. 

Wednesday, on entering the viscount’s 
room, the valet de chambre was struck with 
the condition in which he found his master’s 
clothing. It was wet, and stained with 
mud ; the pants were torn. He hazarded 
a remark upon them. Albert replied, in a 
furious manner, “ Throw the old things in 
a corner, ready to be given away.” 

He appeared to be much better that day. 
He breakfasted with a good appetite ; and 
the butler perceived that he was in excel- 
lent spirits. He passed the afternoon in 
the library, and burned a pile of papers. 

Thursday, he seemed again to suffer much. 
He seemed to regret not being able to see 
the count. That evening, after his inter- 
view with his father, he went to his room 
in a pitiable condition. Lubin wanted to 
go for the doctor : he would not allow it, 
saying, at the same time, there was nothing 
the matter with him. 

Such was the substance of twenty large 
pages, which the long clerk had written 
without once turning his head to look at 
the witnesses who passed by in their fine 
livery. 

This testimony Daburon managed to 
obtain inside of two hours. Being well 
aware of the importance of their testimony, 
all these servants were very voluble. The 
difficulty was, to stop them when they were 
once started. And yet, from all they said, 
it appeared that Albert was a very good 
master, — easily served, kind and polite to 
his servants. .Wonderful to relate 1 there 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


91 


■were found only three among them all who 
did not appear perfectly delighted at the 
misfortune which had befallen the family. 
Two were seriously distressed. Lubin, al- 
though he had been an object of especial 
kindness, was not one of these last. 

The turn of the commissary of police 
had now come. In a few words, he gave 
an account of the arrest, already described 
by Pere Tabaret. He did not forget to 
mark the one word “ Lost,” which had es- 
caped Albert; to his mind, it was a confes- 
sion. He then delivered all the articles 
seized in the Viscount de Commarin’s 
room. 

The judge of inquiry examined carefully 
all these articles, and compared them 
closely with the scraps of evidence gathered 
at Jonchere. He appeared now, more than 
ever, satisfied with his course. 

He personally placed all the material 
proofs upon the table, and, to hide them, 
threw over them three or four of those 
large sheets of paper, which are used by 
shirt-makers for covers. 

The day was far advanced ; and Dabu- 
ron had no more than sufficient time to 
examine the prisoner before night. Why 
should he hesitate now? He had in his 
hands more proofs than would suffice to 
summon ten men before the court of assize, 
and send them from thence to Roquette. 
He was fighting with arms so immeasura- 
bly superior, that, unless through some 
error of his own, Albert would scarcely 
dream of defending himself; and yet, at 
this moment of so much solemnity to him- 
self, he seemed to falter. Was his will 
enfeebled ? Would he abandon his resolu- 
tion ? 

He now, for the first time, remembered 
that he had tasted nothing since morning ; 
and he sent hastily for a bottle of wine, 
and some biscuits. It was not strength, 
however, that the judge needed; it was 
courage. All the time that he was drink- 
ing, Ins thoughts would keep repeating this 
strange sentence, “I am going to appear 
before the Viscount de Commarin.” At 
any other moment, he would have laughed 
at this flight of his thoughts ; but, at this 
moment, lie seemed to see the will of Provi- 
dence. 

“ So be it,” said he ; “ this is my punish- 
ment.” 

And immediately he gave the necessary 
orders for the Viscount Albert to be 
brought before him. 


CHAPTER XII. 

There was little difference in Albert’s 
state of mind at home and in the seclusion 
of the prison. 

Snatched away from those painful dreams 
by the* rude voice of the commissary, say- 
ing, “ In the name of the law 1 arrest you,” 
his spirit, completely overcome, was a long 
time in recovering its equilibrium. Every 
thing that followed his arrest appeared to 
float indistinctly in a thick mist, like the 
fairy scenes at the theatre behind a quad- 
ruple gauze curtain. 

To their questions he replied, without 
hearing himself speak. Two agents took 
his arms, and helped him down the stairs 
from the house. He could not have walked 
down alone. His limbs, which bent be- 
neath him, could not have borne him. One 
thing alone he heard, a servant saying that 
the count had been struck with apoplexy ; 
but even that he soon forgot. 

They raised him into the coach, which 
stood in the court, at the foot of the steps, 
rather ashamed of finding itself in such a 
place ; and they placed him upon the back 
seat. Two agents took their seats in front 
of him ; while a third mounted the box by 
the side of the driver. During the drive, 
he did not at all realize his situation. He 
lay in the dirty, greasy carriage motion- 
less. His body, which followed every jolt 
of the carriage, wofully in need of springs, 
rolled from one side to the other ; and his 
head fell to and fro on his shoulders, as if 
the muscles of his neck were broken. He 
thought of the Widow Lerouge. He re- 
called her as she ivas when he went with 
his father to Jonchere. It was in the 
spring; and the May-flowers sweetened 
the way. The old woman, in a white head- 
dress, stood at her garden gate : she spoke 
with a suppliant air. The count listened 
to her with a stern glance ; then, taking 
some money from his pocket-book, he gave 
it to her. 

On reaching the jail, they got out of the 
carriage as they had entered it. 

During the formalities of the jail-book, 
in the dark, offensive record office, reply- 
ing mechanically to every thing, he gave 
himself up with delight to recollections of 
Claire. He went back to the time of their 
first love, when he doubted ivhether he 
should ever have the happiness of being 
loved by her in return, and to Madame 
Goello’s house, where they had first ex- 
changed their vows. 

This old lady had a certain celebrated 
lover’s retreat, upon the left bank of the 
Seine, of the most peculiar description. 


92 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Upon all the furniture, and even upon the 
mantel, were placed a dozen or fifteen 
stuffed dogs, of various kinds, which togeth- 
er or successively had helped to cheer the 
old maid’s lonely hours. She loved to re- 
late the stories of these pets, whose affec- 
tions had never failed her. Tney were, too, 
such grotesque, horrible things. One espe- 
cially, outrageously stuffed, seemed ready 
to burst. How many times he had laughed 
at it with Claire until the tears came ! 

They began searching him then. This 
crowning humiliation, when rough hands 
passed all over his body, brought him 
somewhat to himself, and roused his anger. 
But it was soon finished ; and they took 
him through the dark corridors, whose 
pavements were filthy and slippery. They 
opened a door, and pushed him into a sort 
of little cell. He heard behind him the 
sound of clashing bolts, and creaking locks. 

He was a prisoner, and, in accordance 
with special orders, in solitary confinement. 
Immediately he felt a marked sensation of 
comfort. He was alone. 

No more stifled whispers, harsh voices, 
dreadful questions, filled his ears. A pro- 
found silence, giving the idea of nothing- 
ness, formed about him. It seemed to him 
that he had never before escaped from so- 
ciety ; and he rejoiced at it. He would 
have felt relieved, had this even been a 
tomb. His body, as well as his mind, was 
weighed down with weariness. He was 
going to sit down, when he perceived a 
mean couch, at the right, in front of the 
grated window, which let in the little light 
there was. This bed gave him as much 
pleasure as a plank would a drowning man. 
He threw himself upon it, and stretched 
himself with delight ; but he felt chilled. 
He found a coarse woollen coverlid, and, 
wrapping it about him, was soon sound 
asleep. 

In the corridor, two agents of the safety 
police, one still young, the other already 
gray, applied alternately their eyes and 
ears to the peep-hole in the door. 

“ What a fellow he is 1 ” murmured the 
younger officer. “If a man has no more 
nerve than that, he ought to be pretty hon- 
est. He will be wild the morning of his 
execution, eh, Balan Y ” 

“ That depends,” — replied the older. 
“We must wait and see. Lecoq told me 
that he was a terrible rascal.” 

“ Ah ! see how the fellow arranges his 
bed, and lies down. Can he be going to 
sleep ? That’s good ! It’s the first time I 
ever saw such a thing.” 

“It’s because, comrade, that you have 
only had dealings with the smaller rogues. 


All great rascals — and I have had to do 
with more than one — are of this sort. At 
the moment of arrest, good-night every one ; 
their heart fails them: but they recover 
themselves next day.” 

“ Upon my word, if he hasn’t gone to 
sleep ! What a joke ! ” 

“ I tell you, my friend,” added the old 
man, pointedly, “ that nothing is more nat- 
ural. I am sure that, since the blow was 
struck, this young fellow has hardly lived : 
his body has been all on fire. Now he 
knows that his secret is out ; and that 
quiets him. ” 

“ Ha, ha ! you are joking : you say that 
that quiets him ? ” 

“ Certainly. There is no greater punish- 
ment, remember, than anxiety ; any thing 
is preferable. If you have only got ten 
thousand livres income, I will show you a 
way to prove this. Go to Hamburg and 
risk your entire fortune on one chance at 
rouge et noir. Tell me, afterwards, what 
your feelings were while the ball was roll- 
ing. It is, observe, as though they were 
tearing your brain with pincers, as if 
they were pouring molten lead into your 
bones, instead of marrow. This dread of 
detection is so strong, that, when every 
thing is lost, they are content ; they feel re- 
lieved ; they breathe again ; they say to 
themselves, ‘ Ah, it is finished at last.’ 
They are ruined, demolished, overthrown ; 
but it is ended.” 

“ Truly, Balan, one would think that 
you yourself had had just such an experi- 
ence.” 

“ Alas ! ” sighed the officer, “ it is to my love 
for the queen of spades, my unhappy love, 
that you owe the honor of looking through 
this peep-hole in my company. But this 
fellow has two hours for his nap ; do not 
lose sight of him : I am going to smoke a 
cigarette in the court.” 

Albert slept four hours. On awaking, 
his head seemed clearer than it had been 
any time since his interview with Noel. 
It was a terrible moment for him, when, 
for the first time, he looked his situation 
calmly in the face. 

“ By this time,” said he, “ he has taken 
measures to prevent his being ousted.” 

He longed to see some one, — to speak, 
to have questions asked, to explain. He 
felt a desire to cry out. 

“ But what good would it do,” he said to 
himself, “ even if they came ? ” 

He looked for his watch, to see what 
time it was, and found that they had taken 
it away. This moved him deeply : they 
were treating him like the most abandoned 
of villains. He felt in his pockets : they 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


93 


had all been carefully emptied. He thought 
now of his appearance ; and, throwing him- 
self upon the couch, he repaired as much 
as possible the disorder of his toilet. He 
ut his clothes in order, and dusted them ; 
e straightened his collar, and re-tied his 
cravat. Turning, then, a little water on 
his handkerchief, he passed it over his face, 
rubbing his eyes, the lids of which were 
smarting. Then he endeavored to smooth 
his beard and hair. He had no idea that 
four lynx eyes were fixed upon him all the 
time. 

“ Good ! ” murmured the young officer : 
“ see how our cock raises his crest and 
smooths his feathers ! ” 

“ I tell you/’ put in Balan, “ he is simply 
benumbed. Hush! he is speaking, I be- 
lieve.” 

But they neither surprised one of those 
disordered gestures nor one of those in- 
coherent speeches, which almost always es- 
cape from the feeble when excited by fears, 
or from the independent who believe their 
secrets secure. One word alone, “ honor,” 
reached the ears of the two spies. 

“ These rascals of rank, ’’grumbled Balan, 
“ always have this word in their mouths. 
That which they most fear is the opinion of 
some dozen friends, and several thousand 
strangers, who read the ‘Journal des 
Tribunaux.’ They care nothing about 
their own heads.” 

When the gendarmes came to con- 
duct Albert to the examination, they found 
him seated on the side of his bed, his feet 
ressed against the iron bar, his elbows on 
is knees, and his head buried in his 
hands. He rose, as they entered, and took 
a few steps towards them ; but his throat 
was so dry that he was scarcely able to 
speak. He asked for a few moments’ rest ; 
and, turning towards the little table, he 
filled and drank two large glasses of water 
in succession. 

“ I am ready,” he then said. 

And, with a firm step, he followed the 
gendarmes along the passage which led to 
the court. 

Daburon was now in anguish. He 
walked furiously up and down his office, 
awaiting his prisoner. Again, and for the 
twentieth time since morning, he regretted 
his having engaged in the business. 

“ Curse on this absurd point of honor, 
which I have obeyed,” he exclaimed. “ I 
have attempted to reassure myself by the 
aid of sophisms. I have done wrong in not 
withdrawing. Nothing in the world can 
change my feelings against the young 
man.° I hate him. I am his judge ; and 
it is no less than true, that I have longed 


to assassinate him. I once aimed at him 
with my revolver. Why did I not pull the 
trigger ? Do I know why ? What power 
held my finger, when an almost insensible 
pressure would have sufficed to strike the 
blow ? I cannot say. Why is not he the 
judge, and I the assassin ? If the intention 
was as punishable as the deed, my neck 
would suffer. And is it under such condi- 
tions that I dare examine him ? ” 

Passing before the door, he heard the 
heavy step of the gendarmes in the gal- 
lery. 

“ It is he,” he said aloud ; and then has- 
tily took a seat behind the table, bending 
into the shade of the portfolio, as though 
striving to hide himself. If the long clerk 
had had eyes, he would have noticed the 
singular spectacle of a judge, more anx- 
ious than the prisoner. But he was blind 
to it ; and, at this moment, he saw only an 
error of fifteen centimes, which had slipped 
into his accounts, and which he was una- 
ble to rectify. 

Albert entered the judge’s office erect. 
His features bore traces of great fatigue 
and of long wakefulness. He was very pale ; 
but his eyes were clear and sparkling. 

The usual questions which open such 
examinations gave Daburon time to recov- 
er himself. Fortunately he had found 
time in the morning to prepare a plan, 
which he had now simply to follow. 

“ You are not ignorant, monsieur,” he 
commenced in a tone of perfect politeness, 
“ that you have no right to the name you 
bear ? ” 

“ I know, monsieur,” replied Albert, 
“ that I am the natural son of Monsieur de 
Commarin. I know further that my father 
would be unable to recognize me, if he 
wished ; since I was born during his mar- 
riage.” 

“ What were your feelings upon learning 
this ? ” 

“ I should speak falsely, monsieur, if I 
said I did not feel very bitterly. When 
one is in the high position I occupied, the 
fall is terrible. However, I have never for 
a moment thought of contesting Noel 
Gerdy’s rights. I have always purposed, 
and still purpose, to yield. I have so in- 
formed M. de Commarin.” 

Daburon listened to this reply ; and it 
only strengthened his suspicions. Did it 
not enter into the line of defence which 
the prisoner had marked out for himself ? 
It was his duty now to seek some way of 
breaking up this defence, in which the 
prisoner meant to shut himself up as in a 
shell. 

“ You could only oppose,” continued the 


94 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


judge, “ a plea of non recevoir to Monsieur 
Gerdy. You had, indeed, on your side, the 
count, and your mother; but Gerdy had, 
on his side, testimony which it would have 
been necessary to suppress, — that of the 
Widow Lerouge.” 

“ I have never denied it, monsieur.” 

“ Now,” continued the judge, seeking to 
hide the look which he fastened upon 
Albert, “Justice supposes that, to do away 
with the only existing proofs, you have- 
assassinated the Widow Lerouge ! ” 

This terrible accusation, terribly em- 
phasized, caused no change in Albert’s 
features. He kept the same firm bearing, 
without braggadocio. Not a wrinkle ap- 
peared on his face. 

“ Before God,” he answered, “ and by all 
that is most sacred on earth, I swear to you, 
monsieur, that I am innocent 1 I have 
been to this moment a close prisoner, with- 
out communication with the outer world, 
reduced consequently to the most absolute 
helplessness. It is through your probity 
that I hope to demonstrate my innocence.” 

“ What an actor ! ” thought the judge. 
“ Can crime give such force ? ” 

He ran over the papers, reading certain 
passages of the preceding depositions, 
turning down the corners of certain pages 
which contained important information. 
Then suddenly he continued, — 

“ When you were arrested, you cried 
out, ‘ I am lost ; ’ what did you mean by 
that?” 

“ Monsieur,” replied Albert, “ I re- 
member having uttered those words. When 
I knew of what crime they accused me, I 
was overwhelmed with consternation. My 
spirit was, as it were, illuminated by a 
glimpse of futurity. In less than a mo- 
ment, I perceived all the horrors of my situ- 
ation. I saw the weight of the accusation, 
its probability, and the difficulties I should 
have in defending myself. A voice cried 
out to me, ‘ Who, then, is most interested in 
Claudine’s death Y ’ And the knowledge 
of my imminent peril forced from me the 
exclamation you speak of.” 

His explanation was more than plausible, 
was possible, and even probable. It had 
the advantage, too, of anticipating the 
axiom, — 

Search out the one whom the crime will 
benefit ! Tabaret had spoken truly, when 
he said that they had not taken an unskil- 
ful prisoner. 

Daburon admired Albert’s presence of 
mind, and the resources of his perverse 
imagination. 

“You do, indeed,” continued the judge, 
“ appear to have had the most serious in- 


terest in this death. You see we are very 
sure that robbery was not the object of the 
crime. The things thrown into the Seine 
have been recovered. We know, also, 
that all the papers were burnt. Could 
they compromise any one but yourself ? If 
you know of any one, speak.” 

“ What can I answer, monsieur ? Noth- 
ing.” 

“ Have you gone often to this woman’s 
house ? ” 

“ Three or four times, with my father.” 

“ One of your coachmen pretends to 
have driven you there at least ten times.” 

“ The man is mistaken. But what mat- 
ters the number of visits ? ” 

“ Do you recollect the arrangement of 
the rooms ? Can you describe them ? ” 

“ Perfectly, monsieur : there were two. 
Claudine slept in the back room.” 

“ It is understood that you were not un- 
known to the Widow Lerouge. If you had 
knocked some evening at her door, do you 
think she would have opened it for you ? ” 

“ Certainly, monsieur, and eagerly.” 

“ You have been unwell these last few 
days ? ” 

“ Very unwell; yes, monsieur, my body 
bent under the weight of a burden 
too great for my strength. I have not, 
however, lost my courage.” 

“ Why did you forbid your valet de 
cliambre , Lubin, to call the doctor ? ” 

“ Ah, monsieur, how could the doctor 
reach my disease? All his science could 
not make me the legitimate son of the Count 
de Commarin.” 

“ Singular remarks made by you were 
overheard. You seemed to be no longer 
interested in any thing about the house. 
You destroyed papers and letters.” 

“ I had decided to leave the house, mon- 
sieur. My resolution explains all that.” 

To the judge’s questions, Albert replied 
promptly, without the least embarrassment, 
and in a confident tone. His voice, of a 
sympathetic calibre, did not tremble. It 
concealed no emotion ; it retained its pure 
and vibrating sound. 

Daburon believed it wise to suspend the 
examination. With an adversary of this 
strength, he was evidently pursuing a false 
course. To proceed in detail was folly ; . 
they neither intimidated him nor made 
him break through his reserve. 

“Monsieur,” said the judge abruptly, 

“ tell me exactly, I beseech you, how you 
passed your time last Tuesday evening, 
from six o’clock until midnight ? ” 

For the first time, Albert seemed discon- 
certed. His eyes, which had, up to this 
time, been fixed upon the judge, wandered. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


95 


“ Daring Tuesday evening,” he stam- 
mered, repeating the phrase to gain time. 

“ I have hit it,” thought the judge, start- 
ing with joy, and then added aloud, “ yes, 
from six o’clock until midnight.” 

. “ I am afraid, monsieur,” answered 
Albert, “ it will be difficult for me to satisfy 
you. I haven’t a very good memory.” 

“ Oh, don’t tell me that ! ” interrupted 
the, judge. “If I had asked what you 
were doing three months ago, on a certain 
evening, and at a certain hour, I could 
account for your hesitation ; but this is 
about Tuesday, and it is now Friday. 
Moreover, this day, so close, was the last 
of the carnival ; it was Shrove Tuesday. 
That circumstance ought to help your mem- 
ory.” 

“ That evening, I was walking,” mur- 
mured Albert. 

“ Now,” continued the judge, “ where 
did you dine ? ” 

“ At home, as usual.” 

“ No, not as usual. At the end of your 
meal, you asked for a bottle of Bourdeaux, 
which you emptied. You doubtless had 
need of some extra excitement for your 
subsequent plans.” 

“I had no plans,” replied the prisoner 
with a very evident uneasiness. 

“ You deceive yourself. Two friends 
came to seek you. You replied to them, 
before sitting down to dinner, that you had 
a very important engagement.” 

“ That was only a polite way of getting 
rid of them.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Can you not understand, monsieur ? I 
was resigned, but not comforted. I was 
learning to get accustomed to the terrible 
blow. Does not one seek solitude in the 
great crises of one’s life ? ” 

“ The prosecution supposes that you 
wished to be left alone, that you might go 
to Jonchere. During the day, you said, 

‘ She cannot resist me.’ Of whom were 
you speaking ? ” 

“ Of some one to whom I had written 
the evening before, and who had replied 
to me. I spoke the words, with her letter 
still in my hands.” 

“ This letter was, then, from a woman ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What have you done with it? ” 

“ I burned it.” 

“ This precaution would seem to imply 
that you considered it as compromising.” 

“ Not at all, monsieur ; it treated entirely 
of private matters.” 

Daburon was sure that this letter came 
from Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. Should 
he nevertheless ask it, and compel himself 


to again pronounce this name of Claire, so 
terrible to him ? He ventured to do so, 
hiding his face behind a paper, so that the 
prisoner did not detect his emotion. 

“ From whom did this letter come ? ” he 
asked. 

“ From one whom I cannot name.” 

“Monsieur,” said the judge, addressing 
him severely, “ I will not conceal from you 
that your position is very dangerous. Do 
not aggravate it by this culpable reticence. 
You are here to tell every thing, mon- 
sieur.” 

“ My affairs alone, not those of others.” 

Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. 
He was giddy, flurried, exasperated, by the 
prying and irritating mode of the examina- 
tion, which gave him no time to breathe. 
The judge’s questions fell upon him more 
thickly than the blows of the blacksmith’s 
hammer upon the red hot iron which he is 
anxious to form before it cools. 

The apparent rebellion of his prisoner 
troubled Daburon seriously. He was fur- 
ther extremely surprised to find the dis- 
cernment of the old detective at fault ; 
just as though Tabaret were infallible. 
Tabaret had predicted an unexceptionable 
alibi ; and this alibi was not forthcoming. 
Why ? Had this subtle villain something 
better than that ? What ruse had he at the 
bottom of his bag ? Doubtless he kept in 
reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps 
irresistible. 

“ Gently,” thought the judge. “ I have 
not got him yet.” Then he quickly said 
aloud, — 

“ Go on. After dinner, what did vou 
do?” 

“ I went out for a walk.” 

“ Not immediately. The bottle drank, 
you smoked in the dining room, which was 
so unusual as to be noticed. What kind 
of cigars do. you usually smoke ? ” 

“ Trabucos.” 

“ Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep 
your lips from contact with the tobacco ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied Albert, much 
surprised at this series of questions. 

“ What time did you go out? ” 

“ About eight o’clock.” 

“ Did you carry an umbrella ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where did you go ? ” 

“ I walked about the streets.” 

“ Alone, without an object, all the even- 
ing ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Now trace out your wanderings for me 
exactly.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, that is very difficult for 
me 1 I went out simply to walk, to obtain 


96 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


exercise, to drive away the torpor which 
had depressed me for three days. I don’t 
know whether you can picture to yourself 
my exact condition. I had lost my head. 
I moved about at hazard along the quays. 
I wandered through the streets, — ” 

“ All that is very improbable,” inter- 
rupted the judge. Daburon, however, 
knew that it was possible. Had not he 
himself one night in a race of folly trav- 
ersed all Paris ? What reply could he have 
made, if some one had asked him next 
morning where he had gone, except that 
he had not paid attention, and did not 
know ? But he had forgotten this ; and 
his anguish, too, had much less reason for 
it than Albert ’s. 

The inquiry commenced, he had caught 
the fever of investigation. He renewed 
his desire for the struggle, his passion for 
his calling. 

He became again a judge of inquiry, 
like the fencing master, who, practising 
with his dearest friend, elated by the clash 
of weapons, becomes excited, forgets him- 
self, and kills him. 

“ So,” continued Daburon, “ you met ab- 
solutely no one who could affirm that he 
saw you ? You did not speak to a living 
soul? You went in nowhere, — not even 
into a cafe or a theatre ? ” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Well, monsieur, it is a great misfortune 
for you, — a very great misfortune ; for I 
must inform you, that it was precisely dur- 
ing this Tuesday evening, between eight 
o’clock and midnight, that the Widow Le- 
rouge was assassinated. Justice can point 
to the exact hour. Again, monsieur, in 
your interests, I entreat you to reflect, — to 
make a strong appeal to your memory.” 

This pointing out of the exact day and 
hour of the murder stunned Albert. He 
carried his hand to his forehead with a de- 
spairing gesture. But he replied in a calm 
voice, — 

“ I am very unfortunate, monsieur ; but 
I have no explanation to make.” 

Daburon’s surprise was profound. What, 
not an alibi ? Nothing V This could be 
no snare nor system of defence. Was, 
then, this man as strong as he had imag- 
ined ? Doubtless ; but he had been taken 
unaware, — caught unprovided. He had 
never imagined that it was possible for the 
accusation to fall upon him ; it could only 
do so by a miracle. 

The judge raised slowly, and one by oi$e, 
the large pieces of paper that covered the 
convicting articles seized in Albert’s room. 

“We will pass on,” he continued, “ to 
the examination of the charges which 


weigh against you. Will you please come 
nearer? Do you recognize these articles 
as belonging to yourself? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, they are all mine.” 

“ Well, take this foil. Who broke it ? ” 

“ I, monsieur, in fencing with M. Courti- 
vois, who can bear witness to it.” 

“ That will be inquired into. Where is 
the broken end ? ” 

“ I do not know. Upon that point, you 
must ask my valet de chambre, Lubin.” 

“ Exactly. He declares that he has 
hunted for it, and cannot find it. I must 
tell you that the victim received the fatal 
blow with the end of a foil, broken and 
sharpened. This piece of stuff, on which 
the assassin wiped his weapon, proves it.” 

“ I beseech you, monsieur, to order a 
most minute search for this. It is impos- 
sible that the other half of the foil is not to 
be found.” 

“ Orders have been given to that effect. 
See here, traced out on this paper the exact 
imprint of the murderer’s foot. I have ap- 
plied it to the sole of one of your boots ; it, 
at once, you perceive, adapts itself with the 
utmost precision. This piece of plaster has 
been poured into the hollow left by your 
heel : you observe that it is, in all re- 
spects, your own heel. I perceive, too, the 
mark of a peg, which is also here.” 

Albert followed with marked anxiety the 
judge’s every movement. It was plain 
that he was struggling against a growing 
terror. Was he attacked by that panic 
which stupefies criminals when they are on 
the point of being convicted ? To all re- 
marks of the magistrate, he replied in a 
dull voice, — 

“ It is true, — perfectly true.” 

“ Wait,” continued Daburon; “listen 
further, before crying out. The criminal 
had an umbrella. The end of this umbrella 
sank in the mud ; the round of wood-work, 
which ends the cloth, was found moulded 
in the hollow. Here is this clod of mud, 
raised with the utmost care; and here is 
your umbrella. Compare the rounds. 
Are they alike, or not ? ” 

“ These things, monsieur,” attempted Al- 
bert, “ are wonderful coincidences.” 

“ Well, that remains to be proved ; look 
at the end of this cigar, found at the scene 
of the crime, and tell of what brand it 
is, and how it was smoked.” 

“ It is a trabuco, and was smoked with 
a cigar-holder.” 

“ Like these, eh ? ” persisted the judge, 
showing the cigars and holders of amber and 
meerschaum, taken from the library mantel. 

“ Ah ! ” murmured Albert, “ it is a fatal- 
ity, — a wonderful coincidence.” 4 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


97 


“ Patience ; that is nothing, as yet. The 
assassin of the Widow Lerouge wore gloves. 
The victim, in the convulsions of agony, 
seized the murderer’s hands ; and these 
fragments of skin remained in her nails. 
These were preserved, and are here. They 
are of pearl gray, are they not? Now, 
here are the gloves which you wore on 
Tuesday. They are gray, and they are 
frayed. Compare these particles with your 
own gloves. Do they not correspond? 
Are they not of the same color, the same 
skin ? ” 

He could neither deny it, equivocate, 
nor find subterfuges. The evidence was 
there before his eyes. The brutal deed 
shone forth. While appearing to occupy 
himself solely with the objects lying upon his 
table, Daburon never lost sight of his pris- 
oner. Albert was terrified. A cold per- 
spiration bathed his face, and glided drop 
by drop down his cheeks. His hands trem- 
bled so much that they were of no use to 
him. With a choking voice he repeated, — 

“ It is horrible, horrible 1 ” 

“ Finally,” pursued the inexorable judge, 
“ here are the pantaloons you wore on the 
evening of the murder. It is plain that they 
have been wet; and, besides the mud, 
there are traces of dirt. Observe, too, they 
are torn on the knees. We will admit, for 
the sake of argument, that you might not 
remember where you went on that evening ; 
but who could believe that you do not 
know where you tore your pantaloons and 
frayed your gloves ? ” 

What courage could resist such assaults ? 
Albert’s firmness and energy were at an end. 
His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a 
chair, exclaiming, — 

“ I shall go mad 1 ” 

“ You see,” insisted the judge, whose 
gaze had become unbearably fixed upon 
him, — “ you see that the Widow Lerouge 
could only have been stabbed by you.” 

“ I see,” protested Albert, “ that I am a 
victim of one of those terrible fatalities 
which makes men doubt the evidence ot 
their reason. I am innocent.” 

“ Then tell me where you passed Tues- 
day evening.” 

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” cried the prisoner, 
« I must, — ’ But, restraining himself, he 
added in a dull voice, “ I have made the 
only answer that I can make.” 

Daburon arose, having now reached his 
final grand stroke. 

“It is, then, my duty,” said he, with a 
shade of irony, to supply your failure of 
memory. I am going to recount to you 
what you did. On Tuesday evening, at 
eight o’clock, after having received from 
7 


wine a dreadful energy, you left your 
home. At thirty-five minutes past eight, 
you took the cars at St. Lazare station. 
At nine o’clock, you got out at Rueil sta- 
tion.” 

And, adopting without shame, the ideas 
of Pere Tabaret, the judge of inquiry 
repeated nearly word for word the tirade 
improvised the night before by his amateur 
agent of police. 

He had every reason, while speaking, to 
admire the penetration of the old detective. 
In all his life, his eloquence had never pro- 
duced so striking an effect. Every sen- 
tence, every word, carried weight. The 
assurance of the prisoner, already shaken, 
fell piece by piece, just as the walls of a 
town give way when riddled with balls. 

Albert was, as the judge perceived, like 
a man, who, rolling to the bottom of a pre- 
cipice, sees all the points which might 
retard his fall fail him, and who feels a 
new and more painful bruise at each pro- 
jecture, against which his body strikes. 

“ And now,” concluded the judge of 
inquiry, “ listen to good advice : do not 
persist in this mode of denying, impossible 
to sustain. Change your mind. Justice, 
be assured, is ignorant of nothing which it 
is important to know. Believe me ; seek 
the indulgence of the courts : confess your 
guilt.” 

Daburon did not believe that his pris- 
oner would again refuse. He pictured him 
overwhelmed, confounded, throwing him- 
self at his feet, asking for mercy. But he 
was deceived. 

However great appeared Albert’s pros- 
tration, he found in one last effort>of his 
will sufficient strength to recover himself 
and again protest, — 

“ Yon are right, monsieur,” he said in a 
sad, but firm voice ; “ every thing seems to 
prove the criminal. In your place, I should 
have spoken as you have done ; and yet 1 
swear to you that I am innocent.” 

“ Upon my word,” — began the judge. 

“I am innocent,” interrupted Albert; 
“ and I repeat it, without the least hope of 
changing in any way your conviction. Yes, 
every thing speaks against me, — every 
thing, even my own bearing before you. 
It is true, my courage has been shaken by 
these incredible, miraculous, overwhelming 
coincidences. I am overcome, because I 
feel the impossibility of establishing my 
innocence. But I do not despair. My 
honor and my life are in the hands of God. 
At the same time that I appear to you 
lost, — for I do not deceive myself, mon 
sieur, — I do not despair of a complete jus- 
tification. I await it confidently.” 


98 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ What have you to say ? ” interrupted 
the judge. 

“ Nothing but what I have already said, 
monsieur.” 

“ So you persist in denying your guilt ? ” 

“ I am innocent.” 

“ But this is folly — ” 

“ I am innocent.” 

“ Very well,” said Daburon ; “ that is 
enough for to-day. You shall hear the 
reading of the official report, and will then 
be taken back to your prison. I exhort 
you to reflect. Night will perhaps bring 
on a better feeling ; if you wish at any 
time to speak to me, send word, and I will 
come to you. I will give orders to that 
effect. You may read now, Constant.” 

When Albert departed with the gen- 
darmes, the judge muttered in a low tone, 

“ There's an obstinate fellow for you.” He 
certainly had not a shadow of doubt. To 
him, Albert was as surely the murderer as 
if he heard him confess it. Even if he 
should persist in his purpose of denial to 
the end of the investigation, it would be 
impossible, that, with the proofs already 
in existence, a verdict of “ Not guilty ” 
should be rendered. It was a hundred to 
one, that to all the questions the jury 
would reply in the affirmative. 

However, left to himself, Daburon did 
not experience that intense satisfaction, 
mixed with vanity, which is ordinarily felt 
after one has successfully conducted an ex- 
amination, when he has succeeded in get- 
ting his prisoner into Albert’s state. Some- 
thing disturbed him and shocked him. At 
the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at ease. 
He had triumphed ; but his victory gave 
him only uneasiness, pain, and vexation. A 
reflection so simple that he could hardly un- 
derstand why it had not occurred to him 
before increased his discontent, and made 
him angry with himself. 

“ Something told me,” he muttered, 
“ that I was wrong to undertake this busi- 
ness. I am punished for not having obeyed 
this inner voice. I must excuse myself 
from going on with it. This Viscount de 
Commarin has been arrested, imprisoned, 
examined, overpowered : he will certainly 
be convicted, and probably condemned. 
Had I been a stranger to the trial, 1 could 
have appeared in Claire’s presence. Her 
grief would have been great. As her friend, I 
could have soothed her, mingled my tears 
with hers, calmed her regrets. With time, 
she might have been consoled, — perhaps 
have forgotten him. She might, perhaps, 
then have rewarded me; who knows? 
While now, whatever may happen, I shall 
be an object of terror to her : she will nev- 


er be able to endure the sight of me. I 
shall always in her eyes be the assassin of 
her lover. I have with my own hands 
formed between her and myself an abyss 
which centuries can never fill, by my own 
great fault.” 

The unhappy judge heaped the bitterest 
reproaches upon himself. He was in de- 
spair. He had never so hated Albert, — 
this wretched man, who, stained with a 
crime, stood in the way of his happiness. 
Then how he cursed Pere Tabaret 1 
Alone, he should not have decided so quick- 
ly. lie would have thought over it, matured 
his decision, and certainly recollected the 
inconveniences, which now occurred to him. 
This man, like a badly trained bloodhound, 
urged on and carried away by his stupid 
passion, had become confused. 

It was precisely this unfavorable moment 
that Tabaret chose for making his appear- 
ance before the judge. He had been in- 
formed of the termination of the inquiry ; 
and he arrived, impatient to know what had 
passed, swelling with curiosity, his nose in 
air, distended with the sweet hope of hear- 
ing of the fulfilment of his predictions. 

“ What answer did he make ? ” he asked 
almost before he had opened the door. 

“ He is evidently the criminal,” replied 
the judge, with a harshness very different 
from his usual manner. 

Pere Tabaret, who had expected to re- 
ceive praises by the basketful, was surpris- 
ed at this tone ! It was, therefore, with 
great hesitancy that he offered his further 
services. 

“ I have come,” he said modestly, “ to 
know if any investigations are necessary to 
demolish the alibi offered by the prisoner.” 

“ He gave no alibi” replied the magis- 
trate dryly. 

“ How,” cried the old detective, “ no ali- 
bi ? Pshaw ! I ask pardon : he has of 
course then confessed every thing.” 

“No,” said the judge impatiently, “he 
has confessed nothing. He acknowledges 
that the proofs are decisive : he cannot give 
an account of how he spent his time ; but 
he protests his innocence.” 

In the centre of the office, Tabaret, his 
mouth wide open, his eyes starting wildly, 
stood in the most grotesque attitude his as- 
tonishment could effect. He was literally 
thunderstruck. 

In spite of his anger, Daburon could not 
help smiling; and even Constant gave a 
grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a 
paroxysm of laughter. 

“ Not an alibi, nothing ? ” murmured the 
old fellow. “ No explanations ? The idea ! 
It is inconceivable. Not an alibi? We 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


99 


must be mistaken : he is certainly not the 
criminal. It cannot be at all ! ” 

The judge of inquiry felt that the old am- 
ateur must have been waiting the result of 
the examination at the wine shop around 
the corner, or else that he had gone mad. 

“ Unfortunately,” said he, “ we are not 
mistaken. It is too clearly shown that 
Monsieur de Commarin is the murderer. 
But, if you like, ask Constant for his report 
of the examination, and run it over while I 
put these papers in order.” 

“ Very well,” said the old fellow with fe- 
verish anxiety. 

He sat down in Constant’s chair, and, 
leaning his elbows on the table, buryingdiis 
hands in his hair, in less than no time read 
through the report. When he had finished, 
he arose wild, pale, his face distorted. 

“ Monsieur,” said he to the judge in a 
strange voice, “ I have been the involunta- 
ry cause of a terrible mistake. This man 
is innocent.” 

“ Come, come,” said Daburon without 
stopping his preparations for departure, 
“ you are losing your head, my dear Taba- 
ret. How, after all that you have read 
there, can — ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, yes ; it is because I have 
read this that I entreat you to pause, or we 
shall add one more to the sad list of judi- 
cial errors. Read this examination over 
carefully ; there is not a reply which does 
not declare this unfortunate man innocent, 
— not one word which does not throw out 
a ray of light. And he is still in prison, 
still in solitary confinement ? ” 

“ He is ; and there he will remain, if you 
please,” broke in the judge. “It becomes 
you well to speak in this manner, after the 
way you talked last night, while I hesitated 
so much.” 

“ But, monsieur,” cried the old detective, 
“ I say now precisely the same. Ah, wretched 
Tabaret ! all is lost; and they will not un- 
derstand you. Pardon me, monsieur, if I 
lack the respect due to your office ; but you 
have not grasped my method. It is, how- 
ever, very simple. Given a crime, with all 
the circumstances and details, I construct, 
piece by piece, a plan of accusation, which 
I do not warrant until it is entire and per- 
fect. If a man is found to whom this plan 
applies exactly in every particular, the au- 
thor of the crime is found ; otherwise, we 
have laid hands upon an innocent person. 
It is not sufficient that such and such par- 
ticulars seem to point to him ; it must be 
all or nothing. This is infallible. Novy, 
in this case, how have I reached the crimi- 
nal ? By proceeding by inference from the 
known to the unknown. I have examined 


his work ; and I have formed an idea of the 
worker. Reason and logic lead us to what ? 
To a villain, determined, courageous, and 
prudent, versed in the business. And do 
you think that such a man would neglect 
a precaution that would not be omitted by 
the commonest tyro ? It is inconceivable. 
What 1 This man is so skilful as to leave 
such feeble traces that they escaped Gevrol’s 
practised eye; and you think he would risk 
discovery by leaving an entire night unac- 
counted for ? It’s impossible ! I am as 
sure of my system as of a well-proved rule 
of arithmetic. The Jonchere assassin had 
an alibi. Albert has offered none ; then he 
is innocent.” 

Daburon looked at the old detective pity- 
ingly, — much as he would look at a re- 
markable monomaniac. When he had fin- 
ished, — 

“ My worthy Monsieur Tabaret,” he 
said to him, “ you are entirely in the wrong. 
You err through an excess of subtlety. You 
allow too freely to others the wonderful sa- 
gacity with which you yourself are en- 
dowed. Our man has failed in prudence, 
simply because he believed his rank would 
place him above suspicion.” 

“No, monsugir, — no, a thousand times 
no. My criminal, — the true one, — he 
whom we have* yet to find, would dread 
every thing. Besides, does Albert defend 
himself? No. He is overwhelmed ; be- 
cause he perceives the coincidences so fatal 
that they appear to condemn him, without 
a chance of escape. Did he try to excuse 
himself? No. He simply replied, ‘It is 
terrible.’ And then this reticence that I 
cannot explain.” 

“ I can explain it very easily ; and I am 
as confident as though he had confessed 
every thing. I have more than sufficient 
proofs for that.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, those proofs 1 There 
are always enough of those against an ar- 
rested man. They have existed against 
every innocent man who was ever con- 
demned. Proofs 1 Why, I had them in 
quantities against Kaiser, the poor little 
tailor, who — ” 

“ Well,” interrupted the judge, hastily, 
“ if he is not the one most interested in the 
crime, who is ? His father, the Count de 
Commarin ? ” 

“ No : the true assassin is a young man.” 

Daburon had arranged his papers, and 
finished his preparations. He took up his 
hat, and, as he was going out, replied, — 

“ Adieu ! Come and see me by-and-by, 
Tabaret, when you have got rid of these 
fancies. To-morrow we will talk the whole 
matter over again. I am rather tired to- 


100 THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


night.” Then he added, addressing his 
clerk, “ Constant, bring me word, in the 
Court of records, in case the prisoner Com- 
marin wishes to speak to me.” 

He had reached the door ; but Tabaret 
barred his exit. 

“ Monsieur,” said the old man, “ in the 
name of heaven listen to me ! He is inno- 
cent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to 
find the real criminal. Monsieur, think of 
your remorse in case you take this false 
step.” 

But the magistrate did not wish to hear 
more. He pushed Pere Tabaret quickly 
aside, and hastened into the gallery. 

The old man now turned to Constant. 
He wished to convince, persuade, prove to 
him. Lost trouble : the tall clerk hastened 
to fold up his baggage, thinking of his soup, 
which was growing cold. 

Having closed the study door, Pfere Tab- 
aret, wretched in spirit, was alone in the 
dark gallery. The noise of the courts was 
hushed : all was silent as the tomb. The 
old detective desperately grasped his hair 
with both hands. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, “ Albert is innocent ; 
and it is I who have betrayed him. I, like 
a madman, have infused into the obstinate 
spirit of this judge a conviction that I can 
no longer control. He is*innocent, and is 
yet enduring the most horrible anguish. 
If he should commit suicide ! There have 
been instances of wretched men, who in 
despair at being falsely accused have killed 
themselves in their prison. Poor boy ! 
But I will not abandon him. I have ruined 
him : I will save him ! I must, I will find 
the criminal ; and he shall pay dearly for 
my mistake, — the scoundrel I ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

After seeing the Count de Commarin 
safely in his carriage at the entrance of the 
palais de justice, Noel Gerdy seemed in- 
clined to leave him. 

Resting one hand against the half-opened 
carriage door, he bowed respectfully, and 
said, — 

“ When shall I have the honor of paying 
my respects to you, monsieur ? ” 

“ Come with me now,” said the old man. 

The advocate, still leaning forward, mut- 
tered some excuses. He had, he said, im- 
portant business : he must positively return 
to his rooms at once. 

“ Come,” repeated the count, in a tone 
which admitted of no reply. 


Noel obeyed. 

“ You have found your father,” said M. 
de Commarin in a low tone ; “ but I must 
warn you, that you at the same time lose 
your independence.” 

The carriage started ; and now, for the 
first time, the count noticed that Noel had 
very modestly taken his seat opposite 
him. This modest bearing pleased him 
much. 

“ Sit here, by my side, monsieur,” he 
said ; “ are you not my son V ” 

The advocate, without replying, took his 
seat by the side of the old man, but as far 
from him as possible. 

He had received a terrible shock in Dab- 
uron’s presence; for he retained none of 
his usual boldness, none of that sang-froid 
by which he was accustomed to conceal his 
feelings. Fortunately, the ride gave him 
time to breathe, and to recover himself a 
little. 

On the way from the palais de justice to 
their home, not a word passed between 
the father and son. 

When the carriage stopped before the 
flight of stairs, and the count got out with 
( Noel’s assistance, there was great commo- 
j tion among the servants. 

There were, it is true, few of them pres- 
ent, nearly all having been summoned to 
the palais ; but the count and the advocate 
had scarcely disappeared, when, as if by 
enchantment, they were all assembled in 
the entry. They came from the garden, 
the stables, the cellar, and the kitchen. 
Nearly all bore marks of their calling. 
One young groom ran about with his 
wooden shoes filled with straw, shuffling on 
the marble floor like a mangy dog on the 
Gobelin tapestry. One of these fellows 
recognized Noel from his visit of the previ- 
ous Sunday; and that was enough to set 
fire to all these lovers of gossip, thirsting 
for scandal. 

Since morning, moreover, the unusual 
events at the Commarin house had started 
a great uproar in sooiety. A thousand 
stories were circulated, talked over, cor- 
rected, and added to by the ill-natured and 
malicious, — some abominably absurd, oth- 
ers simply idiotic. Twenty people, very 
noble and still more proud, had not been 
too proud to send their most intelligent ser- 
vants to pay a little visit among the count’s 
servants, for the sole purpose of learning 
something positive. As it was, nobody 
knew any thing ; and yet everybody was 
fully informed. 

Let any one explain vwho can this very 
common phenomenon : a crime is commit- 
ted; justice arrives, wrapping itself in 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 


101 


mystery ; the police are still ignorant of 
almost every thing ; and yet details of the 
most minute character are circulated 
about the streets. 

“ Ah,” said a cook, “ that great dark 
fellow with the whiskers is the count’s true 
son ! ” 

“ You are right,” said one of the servants 
who had accompanied M. de Commarin ; 
“as for the other, he is no more his son 
than Jean here ; who, by the way, will be 
kicked out of doors, if he is caught in here 
with his dirty working-shoes on.” 

“ Likely story,” exclaimed Jean, smiling 
a little at the danger which threatened him. 

“ He has been expected all the time,” 
said the cook. 

“ Why, how is that ? ” 

“ Well, you see, one day, long ago, when 
the countess who is now dead was out 
walking with her little son, who was about 
six months old, the child was stolen by 
gypsies. The poor lady was full of grief; 
but, above all, feared her husband, who 
was not kind to her. What was to be 
done ? She purchased a brat from an old 
woman, who happened to be -passing ; and, 
never having noticed his child, the count 
has never known the difference since.” 

“ But the assassination ! ” 

“ That’s very simple. When the wo- 
man saw her brat in such a nice berth, she 
bled him finely, and has kept up a system 
of blackmailing all along. So he resolved 
to put an end to it, and come to a final 
settling with her.” 

“ And this brown fellow, — what about 
him ? ” 

The orator would have gone on, without 
doubt, giving the most satisfactory explana- 
tions of every thing, if he had not been in- 
terrupted by the entrance of Lubin, who 
came from the* palais in company with 
young Joseph. His success, so brilliant 
up to 5 this time, was cut short, just as that 
of an inferior singer when the star comes 
on the stage. The entire assembly turned 
towards Albert’s valet de chambre, all eyes 
questioning him. He knew at once that 
he was a man of importance ; but he did 
not abuse his advantages, and make his 
little world languish too long. 

“ What a rascal ! ” he cried out. “ What 
a villainous fellow is this Albert ! ” 

He purposely did away with “ monsieur ” 
and “ viscount,” and met with general ap- 
proval for so doing. 

“But,” he added, “I always had my 
doubts. The fellow didn’t please me by 
half. Just see to what we are exposed 
every day in our profession. It is dreadfully 
disagreeable. The judge concealed noth- 


ing from me. ‘ Lubin,* said he, ‘ it was 
very wrong for a man like you to serve 
such a scoundrel.’ For you must know, 
that, besides an old woman of about eighty, 
he also assassinated a young girl of twelve. 
The little child, the judge told me, was 
chopped into bits.” 

“ Ah ! ” put in Joseph ; “ he must have 
been a brute. How they will give it to 
him for such a deed, even though he is rich ; 
for they always punish poor men, who do 
it simply to gain a living 1 ” 

“ Pshaw 1 ” said Lubin in a knowing 
tone; “you will see him come out of it as 
pure as snow. These rich men can do any 
thing.” 

“ But,” said the cook, “I’d give willingly 
a month’s wages to be a mouse, and to lis- 
ten to what the proud count and the tall 
brown fellow are talking about. If I could 
only get a little peep through the key- 
hole.” 

. This proposition did not meet with much 
favor. The servants knew by experience 
that, on important occasions, spying was 
worse than useless. 

M. de Commarin knew all about ser- 
vants from infancy. 

His study was, therefore, a shelter to all 
imprudence. The sharpest ear placed at 
the keyhole could understand nothing of 
what was going on within, even when the 
count was in a passion, and his voice loud- 
est. One alone, Denis, monsieur le premier, 
as they called him, had the opportunity of 
gathering information ; but he was well 
paid for being discrete : and he was dis- 
cretion itself. 

At this time, Monsieur de Commarin 
was sitting in the same chair which he had 
beaten with such a furious hand while lis- 
tening to Albert. 

From the moment he touched the step of 
his carriage, the old gentleman recovered 
his haughtiness. He became even more 
arrogant in his manner, as if he felt the 
mortification of his attitude before the 
judge, and wished himself dead for what 
he now considered an unpardonable weak- 
ness. 

He wondered how he could have yielded 
to a momentary impulse, — how his grief 
could have so basely betrayed him. 

At the remembrance of the avowals 
wrested from him in his wildness, he 
blushed, and called himself the worst of 
names. 

Like Albert, the night before, Noel, hav- 
ing recovered himself fully, held himself 
erect, cold as marble, respectful, but no 
longer humble. 

The lather and son exchanged glances 


102 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


which had nothing of sympathy nor of 
friendliness. 

They examined one another ; they meas- 
ured each other, much as two adversaries 
feel their way with their eyes before en- 
countering with their weapons. 

“ Monsieur,” finally said the count in a 
hard tone, “ henceforth this house is yours. 
From this moment, you are the Viscount 
de Commarin ; you re-enter into the fulness 
of the rights of which you have been de- 
prived. Wait. Listen, before you thank 
me. I wish, in the beginning, to relieve 
you from all misunderstanding. Had I 
been master of the situation, I should never 
have recognized you : Albert should have 
remained in the position in which I placed 
him.” 

“I understand you, monsieur,” replied 
Noel. “ I don’t think that I could ever 
bring myself to do an act like that by 
which you deprived me of my birthright ; 
but I declare that, if I had the misfortune 
to have done it, I should have thereafter 
acted as you have. Your rank was too 
conspicuous to permit a voluntary acknowl 
edgment. It was a thousand times better 
to suffer an injustice to continue in secret 
than to expose your name to the com- 
ments of the malicious.” 

This answer surprised the count, and 
very agreeably. But he would not let his 
satisfaction be seen ; and it was with a still 
harder tone that he continued, — 

“ I have no claim, monsieur, upon your 
affection : I do not ask for it ; but I insist 
at all times upon the utmost deference. It 
is traditional in our house, that the son shall 
never interrupt his father when he is speak- 
ing; that you have just been guilty of. 
Children are not to judge their parents; 
that also you have just done. When I was 
forty years of age, my father was in his 
second childhood ; but I do not remember 
having raised my voice once above his. 
This much, said by way of caution, I con- 
tinue. I have undergone considerable ex- 
pense in providing Albert with an estab- 
lishment distinct from my own, — with ser- 
vants, horses, and carriages; and I have 
allowed the unhappy boy four thousand 
francs a month. I have decided, in order 
to put a stop to all foolish gossip, and to 
make your position the easier, that you 
ought to hold a more important place in the 
house, this for my own sake. Further, I 
will increase your monthly allowance to six 
thousand francs; which I trust you will 
spend as nobly as possible, giving the least 
possible chance for ridicule. I cannot too 
strongly exhort you to the utmost caution. 
Keep close watch over yourself. Weigh 


your words well. Reason about your slight- 
est actions. You will be the point of observa- 
tion for thousands of impertinent idlers who 
compose our world ; your blunders will be 
their delight. Do you fence ? ” 

“ Moderately well.” 

“ So. Do you ride ? ” 

“ No ; but in six months I will be a good 
horseman, or break my neck.” 

“It is fashionable to be a horseman, not 
to break one’s neck. Let us proceed. 
You will, of course, not occupy Albert’s 
apartments. They will be closely locked, 
as soon as they are free from the police. 
Thank heaven ! the house is large. You 
will occupy the other wing ; and there will 
be a separate entrance to your apartments, 
by a separate staircase. Servants, horses, 
carriages, furniture, such as becomes a vis- 
count, will be at your service, cost what it 
may, within forty-eight hours. On the day 
of your taking possession, you must look 
as though you had been installed tor years. 
There will be great scandal ; but that can- 
not be avoided. A prudent father might 
send you away for a few months to the 
Austrian court or to the Russian ; but, in 
this instance, such prudence would be 
absurd. Much better a dreadful outcry, 
which ends quickly, than low murmurs 
which last forever. Dare public opinion ; 
and, in eight days, it will have exhausted 
its comments, and the story will have be- 
come old. So, to work ! This evening, the 
laborers shall be here; and, in the first 
place, I must present you to my servants.” 

To put his purpose into execution, the 
count moved to touch the bell-rope. Noel 
stopped him. 

Since the commencement of this inter- 
view, the advocate had wandered in the 
regions of the thousand and one nights, the 
wonderful lamp in his hand. The fairy 
reality cast into the shade his wildest 
dreams. He was dazzled at the words of 
the count, and had need of all his reason 
to struggle against the giddiness which 
came over him, at realizing his great good 
fortune. Touched by a magic wand, he 
seemed to awake to a thousand novel and 
unknown sensations. He rolled in purple 
and bathed in gold. 

But he knew how to appear unmoved. 
His face had contracted the habit of guard- 
ing the secret of the most violent inner ex- 
citement. While all his passions vibrated 
within him, he listened apparently with a 
sad and almost indifferent coldness. 

“Permit me,” he said to the count, 

“ without overstepping the bounds of the 
utmost respect, to say a few words. I am 
touched more than I can express by your 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


goodness ; and yet, I beseech you, to delay 
its manifestation. The proposition I am 
about to suggest may perhaps appear to 
you worthy of consideration. It seems to 
me that the situation demands the greatest 
delicacy. It is well to despise public opin- 
ion, but not to defy it. I am certain to be 
judged with the utmost, severity. If I in- 
stal myself so suddenly in your house, 
what will they not say ? I shall have the 
appearance of a conqueror, who thinks 
little, in attaining his purpose, of passing 
over the bodies of the conquered. They 
will reproach me with occupying the bed 
still warm from Albert’s body. They will 
rail bitterly at my haste in taking posses- 
sion. They will certainly compare me to 
Albert ; and the comparison will be to my 
disadvantage, because I seem to triumph 
at a time when a great disaster has fallen 
upon our house.” 

The count listened without marked dis- 
approval, struck perhaps by the justice of 
his reasons. 

Noel imagined that his hardness was 
much more feigned than real; and this 
idea encouraged him. 

“ I beseech you then, monsieur,” he con- 
tinued, “ to permit me for the present in 
no way to change my mode of living. Bv 
not showing myself, I leave all malicious 
remarks to waste themselves in air, — I let 
public opinion the better familiarize itself 
with the idea of a coming change. There 
is a great deal in not taking the world by 
surprise. By waiting, I shall not have the 
air of an intruder on presenting myself. 
Absent, I shall have the advantages which 
the unknown always possess, — I shall 
draw to myself the good opinion of all those 
who have envied Albert, I shall obtain as 
defenders all those servants who would to- 
morrow assail me, if my elevation came 
suddenly upon them. Besides, by this de- 
lay, I should accustom myself to my abrupt 
change of fortune. I ought not to bring 
into your world, which is now mine, the 
manners of a parvenu. My name ought 
not to incommode me, like an ill-made coat. 
And, by thus acting, it will be possible for 
me to rectify, at home and without noise, 
the mistakes of my early education.” 

“ Perhaps it would be the wisest,” mur- 
mured the count. 

This assent, so easily obtained, surprised 
Noel. He got the idea that the count had 
only wished to prove him, to test him. In 
any case, whether he had triumphed by 
his eloquence, or whether he had simply 
shunned a trap, he had triumphed. His 
boldness increased ; he determined to make 
himself master in every way. 


“I must add, monsieur,” he continued, 
“ that I have, certain changes to bring about 
in myself. Before entering upon duties in 
my new life, I ought to finish those in my 
old. I have friends and clients. This 
event has surprised me, just as I was begin- 
ning to reap the reward of ten years°of 
hard work and perseverance. I had yet 
only sown ; I was on the point of gathering 
in my harvest. My name was already ris- 
ing. I had obtained some little influence. 
I confess, without shame, that I have here- 
tofore professed ideas and opinions that 
would not be suited to this house ; and it 
would be impossible to-day or to-morrow 
for — ” 

“ Ah ! ” interrupted the count in a ban- 
tering tone, “you were a liberal. It is a 
fashionable disease. Albert was a great 
liberal.” 

“ My ideas, monsieur,” said Noel eagerly, 
“ were those of every intelligent man who 
wishes to rise. Besides, have not all par- 
ties one and the same aim — power ? They 
merely take different means of reaching it. 
I will not enlarge upon this subject. Be 
assured, monsieur, that I will respect my 
name, and think and act as a man of my 
rank should.” 

“ I trust so,” said M. de Commarin ; “ and 
I hope that you will never make me regret 
Albert.” 

“ At least, monsieur, it will not be my 
fault. But, since you have mentioned the 
name of that unfortunate young man, let us 
speak of him.” 

The count cast a look of defiance upon 
Noel. 

“ What can now be done for Albert ? ” 
he asked 

“ What, monsieur ! ” cried Noel with 
ardor, “ would you abandon him, when he 
has not a friend left in the world ? He is 
still your son, monsieur : he is my brother. 
For thirty years he has borne the name of 
Commarin. All the members of a family 
are one. Innocent, or guilty, he has a 
right to count upon us ; and we owe him 
our assistance.” 

This was another of those sentiments 
which the count recognized as Albert’s ; 
and this second one again touched him. 

“ What do you then hope for, monsieur? ” 
he asked. 

“ To save him, if he is innocent ; and I 
love to believe that he is. I am 'an advo- 
cate, monsieur ; and I wish to defend him. 
I have been told that I have considerable 
talent : in such a cause, I must have. Yes, 
however strong the charges against him 
may be, I will overthrow them. I will dis- 
pel all doubts. The truth shall burst forth 


104 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


through my voice. I will find new accents 
to imbue the judges with my conviction. 

I will save him ; and this shall be my 
last cause.” 

“And if he should confess,” said the 
count, “ if he should confess ? ” 

“Then, monsieur,” replied Noel with a 
dark look, “ I will render him the last ser- 
vice, which in such a misfortune I should 
ask of a brother, — the means of avoiding 
judgment.” 

“ That is well said, monsieur,” said the 
count, — “ very well, my son.” 

And he extended his hand to Noel, who 
pressed it, bowing with a respectful 
acknowledgment. 

The advocate breathed again. At last 
he had found the way to the heart of this 
haughty noble ; he had conquered, he had 
pleased him. 

“ Let us return to ourselves,” continued 
the count. “ I yield to the reasons which 
you have suggested. But do not consider 
this a precedent. I never retire from a 
plan once undertaken, unless it is proved 
to me to be bad, and contrary to my inter- 
ests. But at least nothing need prevent 
your remaining here to-day, and dining 
with me. We will, in the first place, see 
where you can lodge until you formally 
take possession of the apartments which 
are to be prepared for you.” 

Noel ventured to interrupt the old gen- 
tleman again. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ when you bade me 
follow you here, I obeyed you, as was my 
duty. Now another and a sacred duty 
calls me away. Madame Gerdy is at this mo- 
ment expiring. Ought I to leave the death- 
bed of her who filled my mother’s place ? ” 
“ Valerie ! ” murmured the count. 

He leaned upon the arm of his chair, 
his face buried in his hands ; in one mo- 
ment the whole past rose up before him. 

“ She has done me great harm,” he mur- 
mured, as if answering liis thoughts. “ She 
has ruined my whole life ; but ought I to 
be implacable? She is dying from the 
accusation which is hanging over our son, 
Albert. It was I who was the cause of it 
all Doubtless, in this last hour, a word 
from me would be a great consolation to her. 
I will accompany you, monsieur.” 

Noel started at this unexpected pro- 
position. 

“ O monsieur ! ” said he hastily, “ spare 
yourself, pray, a heart-rending sight. Your 
;going would be useless. Madame Gerdy 
probably yet exists ; but her mind is dead. 
Her brain was unable to resist so violent a 
rshock. The unfortunate woman would 
peither recognize nor understand you.” 


“ Go then alone,” sighed the count, — 

“ go, my son.” 

The words “ my son,” pronounced with 
a marked emphasis, sounded like a note of 
victory in Noel’s ears, which only his 
studied reserve concealed. 

He bowed to take his leave. The old 
gentleman signed him to stay. 

“ In any event,” he said, “ a place at 
table will be set for you here. I dine at 
precisely half-past six. I shall be glad 
to see you.” 

He rang. Monsieur le premier appeared. 

“ Denis,” said he, “ none of the orders I 
have given will affect this gentleman. You 
will tell this to all the servants. This gen- 
tleman is at home here.” 

The advocate took his leave ; and the 
count felt great comfort in being once more 
alone. 

Since morning, events had followed one 
another with such bewildering rapidity 
that his thoughts could scarcely keep pace 
with them. At last, he was able to reflect. 

“ There, then,” said he to himself, “ is 
my legitimate son. I am sure of his birth, 
at any rate. Truly it would be with a bad 
grace, were I to deny him. 1 find him an 
exact picture of myself at thirty. He is a 
fine fellow, this Noel, very fine. His fea- 
tures are decidedly in his favor. He is 
intelligent and acute. He knows how to 
be humble without lowering himself, firm 
without arrogance. His new and unex- 
pected fortune does not make him giddy. 

I augur well of a man who knows how to 
bear himself in prosperity. He thinks 
well. He will carry his title proudly. 
And yet I feel no sympathy with him ; 
it seems to me that I shall regret my 
poor Albert. I never knew how to appre- 
ciate him. Unhappy boy ! To commit a 
dreadful crime 1 He must have lost his 
reason. I do not like the sight of this one : 
he is too clever. They say that he is per- 
fect. He expresses, at least, the noblest 
and most appropriate sentiments. He is 
kind and brave, magnanimous, generous, 
heroic. He is without malice, and is ready 
to sacrifice himself to repay me for what I 
have done for him. He forgives Madame 
Gerdy : he loves Albert. That makes me 
distrust him. But all young men nowadays 
are so. Ah ! we live in a happy age. Our 
children are born free from all human mis- 
takes. They have none of the vices, pas- 
sions, nor prejudices of their fathers; and 
these precocious philosophers, models of 
sagacity and virtue, are incapable of com- 
mitting the least folly. Alas ! Albert, too, 
was perfect; and he has assassinated 
Claudine 1 That might imply, — but what 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


105 


matters it?” he added, half-aloud. “I 
wish I had gone to see Valerie ! ” 

And, although the advocate had been 
gone at least ten good minutes, M de Com- 
marin, not realizing how time had passed, 
hastened to the window, in the hope of see- 
ing Noel in the yard, and hailing him. 

But Noel had already gone. On leaving 
the house, he had taken a cab as far as the 
Rue Bourgoyne, and from thence to the 
Rue St. Lazare. 

Arrived at his own door, he threw 
rather than save five francs to the driver, 
and ran rapidly up to the fourth story. 

“Who has called upon me ? ” he asked 
of the maid. 

“No one, monsieur.” 

He seemed relieved from a great anxie- 
ty, and spoke again in a calmer tone. 

“And the doctor ? ” 

“He came this morning,” replied the 
maid, “ while you were away ; and he did 
not seem at all confident. He has returned 
every hour, and is now here.” 

“Very well. I am going in to speak to 
him. If any one calls, show them into my 
study, and call me.” 

While entering Madame Gerdy’s cham- 
ber, Noel wondered how he could discover, 
whether any one had been in during his ab- 
sence. 

The sick woman, her eyes fixed, her face 
convulsed, lay extended upon her back. 

She seemed dead, save for sudden starts, 
which at intervals shook her and disturbed 
the bedclothes. 

Above her head was placed a little ves- 
sel, filled with ice water, which fell drop by 
drop upon her face and upon her forehead, 
covered with large bluish spots. 

The table and mantel were laden with 
little pots, ornamented with strings of 
roses, vials for medicines, and half-emptied 
glasses. 

At the foot of the bed, a piece of linen 
stained with blood showed that they had 
been using leeches. 

Near the fireplace, where burned a large 
fire, a nun of the order of St. Vincent de 
Paul was crouching, watching a kettle boil. 

She was a woman still young, her face 
whiter than her skirt. Her features were 
immovably placid, her look mournful, be- 
traying the renunciation of the flesh, and 
the abdication of all independence of 
thought. 

Her dress of gray hung from her in large 
ungraceful folds. At her every motion, her 
large bead-roll of dyed box-wood, weighed 
down by a cross and copper medals, was 
shaken, and dragged on the ground with a 
noise like a chain. 


Upon a chair opposite the bed Dr. Herve 
sat, following apparently with close atten- 
tion the sister’s preparations. He raised 
himself eagerly, as Noel entered. 

e “ At last you are here,” he said, giving 
his friend a strong grasp of the hand. 

“ I was detained at the palais,” said the 
advocate, as if he felt the necessity of ex- 
plaining his absence ; “ and I have been, as 
you may well imagine, dreadfully anxious.” 

He bent down to the doctor’s ear, and, 
with his voice trembling with anxiety, 
asked, — 

“ Well ? ” 

The doctor shook his head with an air of 
deep discouragement. 

“ She is much worse,” he replied ; 
“since morning, bad symptoms have suc- 
ceeded each other with frightful rapidity.” 

He checked himself'. The advocate 
seized his arm, and pinched it. Madame 
Gerdy had stirred a little, and let a feeble 
groan escape her. 

“ She understood you,” murmured Noel. 

“ I wish it were so,” said the doctor ; “ it 
would be most encouraging. But you are 
mistaken. However, go to her.” 

He approached Madame Gerdy, and, tak- 
ing her pulse, examined it carefully; then, 
with the end of his finger, he lightly raised 
the eyelid. 

The eye appeared dull, glassy, lifeless. 

“Come, judge for yourself; take her 
hand, speak to her.” 

Noel, trembling all over, obeyed his 
friend. He advanced, and, leaning on the 
bed so that his mouth almost touched her 
ear, he murmured, — 

“ Mother, it is I, — Noel, — your own Noel. 
Speak to me, make some sign, if you know 
me, mother.” 

It was in vain; she retained her fright- 
ful immobility. Not a sign of intelligence 
crossed her features. 

“ You see,” said the doctor, “ I told you 
the truth.” 

“ Poor woman ! ” sighed Noel, “ does she 
suffer? ” 

“ Not now.” 

The nun now rose; and she too came 
near the bed. 

“ Doctor,” said she, “ it is all ready.” 

“ Then call the maid, sister, to help us. 
We are going to apply a mustard poultice.” 

The servant hastened in. In the arms of 
the two women, Madame Gerdy was like a 
corpse, whose last toilette they were mak- 
ing. She was as rigid as though she were 
dead. She must have suffered much and 
long, poor woman 1 for it was pitiable to see 
how thin she was. The nun herself was af- 
fected, although she had become habituated 


106 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


to the sight of suffering. How many sick 
people had breathed their last in her arms 
during the fifteen years that she had gone 
from pillow to pillow ! 

Noel, during this time, had retired into 
the recess of the window, and pressed his 
burning brow against the panes. 

Of what was he thinking, while she was 
dying a few paces from him, — she who 
had given him so many proofs of maternal 
tenderness and devotion? Did he regret 
her ? Did he not think rather of the grand 
and magnificent existence which was await- 
ing him on the other side of the river, at the 
Faubourg St. Germain ? He turned ab- 
ruptly about, upon hearing the voice of his 
friend. 

“ It is done,” said the doctor ; “ we have 
only now to wait the effect of the mustard. 
If she feels it, it will be a good sign ; if it 
has no effect, we will try cupping.” 

“ And if she never stirs ? ” 

The doctor answered only with a shrug 
of the shoulders, which showed his feeling 
of absolute powerlessness. 

“ I understand your silence, Hervd,” mur- 
mured Noel. “ Alas ! you fear that to-night 
she is lost.” 

“ Scientifically, yes ; but I do not yet de- 
spair. It was hardly a year ago that the 
grandfather of one of our comrades was 
saved in an almost identical case ; and I 
have seen worse cases than this, — where 
suppuration had commenced.” 

“ It breaks my heart to see her in that 
state. Must she die without recovering her 
reason for one moment ? Will she not rec- 
ognize me, speak one word to me ? ” 

“ Who knows ? This disease, my poor 
friend ! baffles all foresight. Each moment, 
the aspect may change, according as the in- 
flammation affects such or such a part of 
the encephalic mass. She is now in a state 
of utter insensibility, of the destruction of 
all her intellectual faculties, of drowsiness, 
of paralysis ; to-morrow, she may be taken 
with convulsions, accompanied with a light- 
ness of the brain, a fierce delirium.” 

“ And will she speak then ? ” 
m “ Without doubt ; but that will not change 
either the nature or the gravity of the dis- 
ease.” 

“ And will she recover her reason ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” answered the doctor, looking 
fixedly at his friend ; “ but why do you ask 
that ? ” , 

“ Ah, my dear Herve, one word from 
Madame Gerdy, — only one, would be of 
such use to me ! ” 

“In your affairs, eh? Well, I can tell 
you nothing, can promise you nothing. 
You have chances in your favor, and chances 


against you ; only do not be far away. If 
her intelligence returns, it will be only by 
flashes ; try and profit by them. But I 
must go,” added the doctor : “ I have still 
three visits to make.” 

Noel followed his friend. When he 
reached the staircase, — 

“ You will return ? ” he asked. 

“ This evening, at nine. There is no 
need of me at present. All depends upon 
the watcher. But I have chosen a pearl. I 
know her well.” 

“It was you, then, who brought this 
nun ? ” 

“ Yes, with your permission. Are you 
displeased ? ” 

“ Not the least in the world. Only, I con- 
fess— ” 

“ What ? you make a face. Perhaps you 
object to having your mother nursed by a 
daughter of St. Vincent ? ” 

“ My dear Ilerve, you — ” ' — ^ 

“ Well, I agree with you entirely. They 
are adroit, insinuating, dangerous, I know. 
If I had an old uncle, whose heir I expected 
to be, I shouldn’t bring one of these into my 
house. These good daughters are some-i 
times charged with strange commissions.! 
But what is there to fear now ? Let them*] 
speak their foolish words. Money aside, ' 
these good sisters are the best nurses in the 
world. I hope you will have one on your 
death-bed. But good-by; I am in a hurry.” 

So, regardless of his professional dignity, 
the doctor jumped down the stairs; while 
Noel, thoughtful, his face charged with anx- 
iety, went back into Madame Gerdy’s room. 

Upon the threshold of the sick-room, the 
nun awaited the advocate’s return. 

“ Monsieur,” said she, “ monsieur.” 

“ You want something of me, sister ? ” 

“ Monsieur, the maid bade me come to 
you for money ; she has no more, and had to 
get credit at the apothecary’s.” 

“Excuse me, sister,” interrupted Noel 
in no very eager tone, — “excuse me for 
not having anticipated your request; but 
you see I am a little confused.” 

And, taking out a hundred franc note, he 
laid it on the mantel. 

“ Thanks, monsieur,” said the sister ; “ I 
will keep account of all expenses. We al- 
ways do this,” she added ; “ it is more con- 
venient for the family, — one is so troubled 
at seeing one we love sick. You have per- 
haps not thought of giving this poor lady 
the sweet aid of our beloved religion ? In 
your place, monsieur, I should send with- 
out delay for a priest, — ” 

“ Why, sister, you see the condition she 
is in ! She is the same as dead ; you saw 
that she did not heed my voice.” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


107 


. “ That is of little consequence, mon- 
sieur,” replied the sister : “ you ought always 
to do your duty. She did not reply to you ; 
but are you sure that she would' not reply 
to a priest? Ah, you do not understand 
all the power of the last rites ! I have seen 
even the dying revive their intelligence and 
strength to make confession, and to receive 
the sacred body of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
I have often heard families say, that they 
did not wish to frighten their sick friend, 
— that the sight of the minister of our 
Lord would inspire a terror that would 
hasten the final end. It is a grievous error. 
The priest does not terrify : he reassures 
the soul, at the beginning of its long jour- 
ney. He speaks in the name of the God of 
mercy, who comes to save, not to destroy. 
I could cite to you many cases of dying 
people who have been cured simply by con- 
tact with the sacred balm.” 

The good sister spoke in a tone mournful 
f as her look.^Her heart was evidently not 1 
in the words which she pronounced. With- 
out doubt, she had learned them when she 
first entered the convent. Then they ex- 
pressed something she really felt, — she 
spoke her own thoughts ; but, since then,, 
she had repeated the words over and over 
again to the friends of every sick person, 
until they lost all meaning. It was there- 
1 after only a succession of hackneyed words, 
which she spoke much as she did the Latin 
words in her rosary. It became simply a 
part of her duties as nurse, like the prepa- 
ration of draughts, and the making of poul- 
tices. 

Noel did not listen to her : his thoughts 
were far away. 

“ Your dear mother,” continued the sis- 
ter, “ this good lady that you love so much, 
ought to have the aid of her religion. Do 
you wish to endanger her soul ? If she 
could speak in the midst of these cruel suf- 
ferings — ” 

The advocate was on the point of reply- 
ing, when the servant announced that a 
gentleman, who would not give his name, 
wished to speak with him on business. 

“ I will come,” he said quickly. 

“ What do you decide, monsieur ? ” per- 
sisted the nun. 

« I leave you free, sister, to do as you 
may judge best.” 

Ttie worthy woman began to recite her 
lesson of thanks but uselessly. Noel had 
disappeared with a displeased look ; and al- 
most immediately she heard his voice in 
the next room, saying, — 

“ Ah, Clergeot, I had almost given up 
seeing you 1 ” 

The visitor, who awaited the advocate, 


was a person well known in the Rue St. 
Lazare, from Rue Provence to the quarters 
of Notre Dame de Lorette, and all along 
the outer boulevards, from the embank- 
ment of Martyrs to the cross-roads at 
Clichy. 

Clergeot was no more a usurer" than the 
father of M. Jourdain was a merchant. 
Only having more money than he could 
very well use, he lent it to his friends ; and, 
in return for this kindness, he consented to 
receive interest, which varied from twenty 
to thirty per cent. 

The excellent man positively enjoyed the 
practice ; and his honesty was generally 
appreciated. He was never known to ar- 
rest a debtor : he preferred to follow him 
without relaxation or intermission for ten 
years, and drag from him bit by bit what 
was due him. 

He lived near the top of the Rue Vic- 
toire. He had no shop ; and yet he sold 
every thing saleable, and some other things, 
too, that the law scarcely considers mer- 
chandise, — any thing to be useful or neigh- 
borly. He often asserted that he was not 
rich. It was possibly true. He was odd, 
very covetous, and fearfully bold. Light 
in purse when it suited him, he would not 
lend a hundred sous, even with the Ferri- 
ere’s guarantee, to those who did not please 
him ; but he would risk his all on the small- 
est chance at cards. 

His preferred customers consisted of 
young girls, actresses, artists, and those 
venturesome fellows who enter upon a pro- 
fession worth only what they can earn, 
such as advocates and doctors. 

He lent to women upon their present 
beauty, to men upon their future talent. 
Slight pledges ! His sagacity, it should be 
said, however, enjoyed a great reputation. 
It was rarely deceived. A girl of the town, 
furnished by Clergeot, had a great start in 
the world. For an actress to be in Cler- 
geot’s debt was a recommendation prefera- 
ble to the warmest criticism. 

Madame Juliette had procured this use- 
ful and honorable alliance for her lover. 

Noel, who knew well how sensitive this 
worthy man was to kind attentions, and 
how pleased by politeness, began by offer- 
ing him a seat, and asking after his health. 
Clergeot gave details. His teeth were still 
good ; but his sight was beginning to fail. 
His leg was growing soft, and his ear hard. 
The chapter of grievances ended, “ you . 
know,” said he, “ why I have come. Your 
notes fall due to-day ; and I am in devilish 
need of money. I have one of ten, one of 
seven, and a third of five thousand francs ; 
total, twenty-two thousand francs.” 


108 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ Ah, Clergeot,” replied Noel, “ not a bad 
joke, this 1 *’ 

“ Joke V ” said the usurer; “I am not 
joking at all.” 

“ 1 hope you are. Why, it’s just eight 
days to-day since I wrote to tell you that I 
could not be ready, and asking for a re- 
newal ! ” 

“I remember perfectly receiving your 
letter.” 

“ What do you say to it, then ? ” 

“ By my not answering the note, I sup- 
posed that you would understand that I 
could not comply with your request. I 
trust that you will exert yourself to find the 
amount for me.” 

Noel let a gesture of impatience escape 
him. 

“ I cannot do it,” he said : “ so take your 
own course. I haven’t a sou.” 

“ The devil ! Do you know that I have 
ranewed these notes four times already ? ” 

“ I know that the interest has been fully 
and promptly paid, and at a rate which 
need not make you regret the invest- 
ment.” 

Clergeot never liked to talk about the 
interest he received. 

He pretended that it w«as humiliating. 

“I do not complain ; I only say that you 
take things too easily with me. If I had put 
your signature in circulation, it would be 
paid the moment it came due.” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ Yes, your pride would not bear trifling ; 
and you would have found means to shun a 
suit. But you say, ‘ Father Clergeot is a 
good fellow : he is trustworthy.’ But I am 
so only when it can do me no harm. Now, 
to-day, I am in great need of funds, — ■ in 
— great — need,” he added, emphasizing 
each word. 

The old fellow’s decided tone seemed to 
disturb the advocate. 

“ Must I repeat it ? ” he said ; “ I am com- 
pletely drained — com — plete — ly ! ” 

“ Indeed ? ” said the usurer ; “ well, I am 
sorry for you ; but I shall have to put the 
papers in the sheriff’s hands.” 

“ To what end ? Let us play our cards 
out, Monsieur Clergeot. You expect to in- 
crease the sheriff’s revenue. Is it not so ? 
After you have been to all the expense, you 
may perhaps recover a centime. You will 
get judgment against me. Well, what 
then ? Do you think of attaching V This 
is not my house ; the lease is in Madame 
Gerdy’s name.” 

“ I know all that. Besides, the sale of 
every thing here would not cover the 
amount.” 

“ Then you count upon dragging me t« 


Clichyl Bad speculation, I warn you: 
you will not only lose what I owe you, but 
much more beside.” 

“ Good*!” cried the honest pawnbroker. 
“ How you abuse me 1 You call that being 
frank. Pshaw 1 if you supposed me capable 
of half the malicious things you have said, 
my money would be there in your drawer, 
ready lor me.” 

“ A mistake 1 I should not know 
where to get it, unless by asking Madame 
Gerdy, — a thing I would never do.” 

A sarcastic and most irritating little 
laugh, peculiar to Pere Clergeot interrupted 
Noel. 

“ There would be simply the trouble of 
asking,” said the usurer : “ mamma’s purse 
has long been empty ; and if the dear crea- 
ture should die now, — they tell me she is 
very ill, — I would not give two hundred 
louis for the inheritance.” 

The advocate flushed : his eyes glittered ; 
but he dissembled, and protested with some 
spirit. 

“ We know what we know,” continued 
Clergeot quietly. “ Before a man risks his 
all, he takes pains to inquire into his 
chances. Mamma’s last money was poured 
out in October last. Ah 1 the Rue Prov- 
ence is an expensive place ! I have made 
an estimate, which is at home. Juliette is 
a charming woman, to be sure : she has not 
her equal, I am convinced ; but she is ex- 
pensive, devilish expensive.” 

Noel was enraged at hearing his Juliette 
thus spoken of by this honorable personage. 
But what reply could he make ? Besides, 
none of us are perfect; and Clergeot’s fault 
was in not properly appreciating women, 
which doubtless arose from the business 
transactions he had had with them. He 
was charming in his business with the fair 
sex, complimenting and flattering them ; 
but the greatest injuries would be less re- 
volting than this impertinent familiarity. 

“ You have gone too fast,” he continued, 
without deigning to notice his customer’s 
look ; “ and I have told you so before. 
But, pshaw 1 you are wild over the girl. 
You cannot refuse her any thing. Fool ! 
When a pretty girl wants any thing, you 
should let her teaze for it a long time ; it 
gives her something to occupy her mind, and 
keeps her from thinking of a quantity of 
other follies. Four real strong wishes, well 
managed, ought to last a year. You don’t 
know how to look after your own interests. 
I know that her glance would strike terror 
into a stone saint ; and she knows her busi- 
ness well. Why, there are not ten girls in 
Paris who live in such style ! And do you 
think she will love you any the more ? Not 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


a bit of it. When she has ruined you, 
she’ll leave you in the lurch.” 

Noel accepted the eloquence of his pru- 
dent banker something as a man without 
an umbrella accepts a shower. 

“ What is the object of all this ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Simply that I will not renew your 
notes. You understand ? At the moment 
they fall due, you must hand me the twenty- 
two thousand francs in question. You 
need not frown : you will find means to do 
it, to prevent my attaching your goods, — 
not here, for that would be absurd, but at 
your little girl’s house ; who would 
scarcely be pleased, and who won’t hesitate 
to show her displeasure.” 

“ But it is her own house ; and you have 
no right — ” 

“ What of that? She is the cause of all 
this trouble. I could well wait ; but she is 
wasting your money. Believe me, you had 
best parry the blow. I wish to be paid 
now. I won’t give you any further delay ; 
because, for three months, you have been 
living on your last resources. It won’t do. 
You are in one of those conditions that 
must be continued at any price. You 
would burn the wood from your dying 
mother’s bed to warm this creature’s feet. 
What has become of the ten thousand 
francs that you left with her the other 
evening ? Who knows what you will at- 
tempt, to procure money? The idea of 
striving to ward it off fifteen days, three 
days, perhaps but a single day more ! 
Open your eyes. I know the game well. 
If you do not leave Juliette, you will 
be ruined. Listen to a little good advice, 
gratis. You must leave her, sooner or later, 
mustn’t you ? Do it to-day, then.” 

As you see, our worthy Clergeot never 
minced the truth to his customers, when 
they were not in the right path. If they 
were displeased, so much the worse for 
them : his conscience was at rest ; it was 
not his affair, who never did a foolish thing 
in his life. 

Noel could bear it no longer ; and his 
ill-humor burst forth. 

“ Enough,” he cried decidedly. “Do as 
you please, Monsieur Clergeot, but have 
done with your advice. I prefer the sher- 
iff’s plain prose. If I have committed im- 
prudences, I can repair them, doubtless, 
much to your surprise. Yes, Monsieur 
Clergeot, I can find the twenty-two thou- 
sand francs ; I can have a hundred thou- 
sand to-morrow morning, if I see fit. 
It will cost me the mere trouble of asking ; 
but I do not see fit. My expenses, however 
displeasing to you, must remain secret as * 


109 

heretofore. I do not wish that my embar- 
rassment should be even suspected. I will not 
relinquish, for your sake, the aim that I 
have pursued, the very day it is in my 
grasp.” 

“ He resists,” thought the usurer ; “ he 
is less deeply involved than I had im- 
agined.” 

“ So,” continued the advocate, “ take 
your paper to the sheriff. In eight days, I 
shall be summoned before the court of 
commerce ; and I shall ask for twenty-five 
days’ delay, which the judges always grant 
to an embarrassed debtor. Twenty-five 
and eight, all the world over, make just 
thirty-three days. That is precisely the 
respite I need. Let us resume ; accept 
from me a bill of exchange for twenty-four 
thousand francs in six weeks, or go at once 
for the sheriff.” 

“ And in six weeks,” replied the usurer, 
“ you will be in precisely the same condition 
you are to-day. And forty-five days more 
of Juliette will — ” 

“ Monsieur Clergeot,” answered Noel, 
“ long before that time, my position will be 
completely changed. But I have finished,” 
he added rising ; “ and my time is valua- 
ble.” 

“ One moment, you impatient fellow,” 
interrupted the good-natured banker, “ you 
said twenty-four thousand francs in forty- 
five days ? ” 

“ Yes. That is about sixty-five per cent, 
— pretty fair interest.” 

“I neve? cavil about interest,” said 
Clergeot ; “ but — ” 

He looked sharply at Noel, rubbing his 
chin violently, a movement which in him 
indicated intense brain work. 

“Only,” he continued, “ I should like to 
know upon what you are counting.” 

“ That I cannot tell you. You will know 
it ere long, in common with all the 
world.” 

“ I have it,” cried Clergeot, — “I have 
it ; you are going to marry. You have 
found an heiress ; your little Juliette told 
me something of that sort this morning. 
Ah ! you are going to marry. Is she pretty ? 
But what matters it? She has a full 
purse, eh ? You wouldn’t take her with- 
out that. Then you will keep house ? ” 

“ I did not say so.” 

“ That’s right. Be discreet. But I can 
take a hint. One word more. Be care- 
ful ; your little girl has a suspicion of the 
truth. You are right ; it wouldn’t do to 
be seeking money now. The slightest 
mis-step would be sufficient to put your 
father-in-law upon the track of your 
financial position ; and you would lose the 


110 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


girl. Marry, and settle down. But con- 
ceal it from Juliette ; or I would not give 
a hundred sous for your wedding. So it is 
settled. Prepare a bill of exchange for 
twenty-four thousand francs, and I will 
bring your notes to you on Monday.” 

“ You haven’t them with you, then ? ” 

“ No. And, to be frank with you, I con- 
fess that, knowing well I should get noth- 
ing from you, I left them with others, — 
with the sheriff. However, you may rest 
easy ; you have my word.” 

Clergeot made an appearance of retir- 
ing ; but, just as he was going out, he 
turned sharply around. 

“I forgot,” said he; “while you are 
about it, you can make the bill for twenty- 
six thousand francs. Your little girl or- 
dered some dresses, which I shall deliver 
to-morrow : they may as well be paid in 
the same way.” 

The advocate began to remonstrate. 
He would certainly not refuse to pay, only 
he thought he ought to be consulted in the 
purchase. He didn’t like this way of dis- 
posing of his money. 

“ What a fellow ! ” said the usurer, 
shrugging his shoulders ; “ do you want to 
make the girl unhappy ? You must keep 
her in good humor ; think how she might 
affect the marriage. And you know that, 
if you need any advances for the wedding, 
you have but to guarantee me. Speak to 
your notary, and every thing shall be ar- 
ranged. But I must go. On Monday, 
then ? ” 

Noel watched, to make sure that the usu- 
rer had actually gone. When he saw that 
he was not lingering on the staircase, 

“ Fool ! ” he cried, “ miserable thieving old 
skinflint ! He is on the wrong track, — the 
track, however, that he himself chose 
to pursue. It would be a fine thing, if 
this should get to the count’s ears. Miser- 
able usurer ! I feared for a while that I 
should have to tell him all.” 

While inveighing thus against his ban- 
ker, the advocate looked at his watch. 

“ Half-past five already,” he said. 

His indecision was great. Should he 
dine with his father ? Could he leave 
Madame Gerdy ? He longed to dine at 
the Commarin house ; yet, on the other 
hand, to leave a dying woman 1 

“ Decidedly,” he said, “ I can’t go.” 

He sat down at his desk, and with all 
haste wrote a letter of apology to his father. 
Madame Gerdy, he wrote, might breathe 
her last at any moment : he must remain 
within call. 

After he had bade the servant give 
the note to a messenger, to carry it to the 


count, a sudden thought occurred to 
him. 

“ Does madame’s brother,” he asked, 
“ know that she is dangerously ill ? ” 

“ I do not know, monsieur,” replied the 
girl : “ at any rate, it was not my fault.” 

“ What, did you not think to inform him, 
in my absence ? Run to his house quickly. 
Have him sought for, if he is not at home ; 
bring him here.” 

More tranquil after that, he went in to sit 
in the sick room. The lamp was lighted ; 
and the sister moved back and forth, put- 
ting every thing in place, dusting and ar- 
ranging. She wore an air of satisfaction, 
that did not escape Noel. 

“ Have we any gleam of hope, sister ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Perhaps,” replied the nun. “ The 
priest has been here, monsieur : your dear 
mother did not notice his presence ; but 
he is coming back. That is not all. Since 
the priest was here, the mustard has taken 
admirably. The skin is quite reddened. 

I am sure she feels.” 

“ God grant it, sister ! ” 

“ Oh, I have already been praying ! 
But it is important not to leave her 
alone a minute. I have arranged all with 
the maid. When the doctor comes, I shall 
lie down, and she will watch until one in 
the morning. I will then rise and — ” 

“ You may both go and rest yourselves, 
sister,” interrupted Noel. “ I shall not be 
able to sleep: so I will watch all night.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Tabaret did not consider himself de- 
feated, because he had been repulsed by 
the judge of inquiry, when irritated by a 
long day’s examination. You may call it 
a fault, or an accomplishment; but the old 
man was more obstinate than a mule. To 
the excess of despair to which he suc- 
cumbed in the gallery, there soon suc- 
ceeded that firm resolution which upheld 
him in danger. The feeling of duty took 
possession of him. Was that a time to 
yield to discouraging idleness, when the 
life of a fellow-man hung on each moment ? 
Inaction would be unpardonable. He had 
plunged an innocent man into the abyss ; 
and he must draw him out, — lie alone, if 
no one would lend their aid. Pere Taba- 
ret, as well as the judge, gave way to 
weariness. On reaching the open air, he 
perceived that he, too, had need of rest. 
The emotions of the day had prevented 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Ill 


him from feeling hungry ; and, since morn- 
ing, he had taken nothing but one glass of 
water. He entered a restaurant on the 
boulevard, and ordered supper. 

While lie ate, not only his courage, but 
his confidence came insensibly back to him. 
It was with him, as with the rest of the 
world : he who does not know how often 
the course of his ideas may change, from 
the beginning to the end of a repast, 
should be very modest. A philosopher has 
plainly demonstrated that heroism is but 
an affair of the stomach. 

The old fellow looked at the situation 
in a much less sombre light. Was there 
not plenty of time before him? What 
could not such a man as he do in a month ? 
Was his usual penetration to fail him now? 
Certainly not. His great regret was, his 
inability to let Albert know that some one 
was working for him. 

He was entirely another man, upon 
leaving the table ; and it was with a 
cheerful step that he walked towards the 
Rue St. Lazare. Nine o’clock sounded, as 
the porter opened the door for him. He 
jumped up stairs four steps at a time, to 
receive news of his old friend, of her 
whom he used formerly to call the excel- 
lent, the worthy Madame Gerdv. 

Noel opened the door to him, — Noel, 
who had doubtless been thinking of the 
past ; for he looked as sad as though the 
dying woman was really his mother. 

In consequence of this unexpected cir- 
cumstance, Pere Tabaret for a few mo- 
ments could not help thinking of certain 
difficulties which he should experience. 

He knew very well, that, finding himself 
with the advocate, he would be unavoida- 
bly led to speak of the Lerouge affair; 
and how could he do this, knowing, as he 
did, the particulars much better than his 
young friend himself, without exposing 
himself to betrayal ? But a single impru- 
dent word would reveal the part he was 
playing in this sad drama. Now it was 
from his dear Noel, the future Viscount de 
Commarin, above all others, that he wished 
entirely to conceal his connection with the 
police. 

But, on the other hand, he thirsted to 
know what had passed between the advo- 
cate and the count. This single point pos- 
sessed an interest that aroused his curiosi- 
ty. At last, as he could not restrain its 
gratification, he resolved to keep close 
watch upoji his language and remain con- 
stantly on his guard. 

The advocate took the old man into 
Madame Gerdv’s room. Her condition, 
since afternoon, had changed a little ; it 


was impossible to say whether for good or 
bad. One thing was evident, her depres- 
sion was less profound. Her eyes still re- 
mained fixed ; but certain quiverings of 
the lids were evident. She moved on her 
pillow, and moaned feebly. 

“ What does the doctor say ? ” asked 
Pere Tabaret, in that low whisper one un- 
consciously takes in a sick room. 

“ He is just gone/’ replied Noel ; “ be- 
fore long all will be over.” 

The old man advanced on tip-toe, and 
looked at the dying woman with evident 
emotion. 

“Poor woman !” he murmured; “the 
good God is merciful in taking her. She 
perhaps suffers; but what is this pain, 
compared to what she would feel if she 
knew that her son, her true son, was in 
prison, accused of murder ? ” 

“ That is what I keep repeating to my- 
self,” said Noel, “ to console me for this 
sifffit; for I always loved her, my old 
friend : for me, she is still my mother. 
You have heard me upbraid her, have you 
not? I have twice treated her very harsh- 
ly. I thought I hated her; but here, at 
the moment of losing her, I forget every 
wjong she has done me, only to remember 
her tenderness. Yes, much better death 
for her 1 And yet I cannot think, no, I 
cannot think her son guilty.” 

“ What 1 is it possible, you, too ? ” 

Pere Tabaret put so much warmth and 
vivacity into this exclamation, that Noel 
looked at him with a sort of wonder. He 
felt the color rising in his cheeks, and he 
hastened to explain himself. “ I said, 

1 you, too,’ ” he continued. “ because that I, 
thanks perhaps to my inexperience, am 
persuaded of the innocence of this young 
man. I cannot in .the least imagine a man 
of that rank meditating and accomplishing 
so cowardly a crime. I have spoken with 
many persons on this matter which has 
made so much noise ; and everybody is of 
my opinion. He has public opinion in his 
favor ; that is already something.” 

Seated near the bed, sufficiently far 
from the lamp to be in the shadow, the 
nun hastily knitted stockings destined for 
the poor. It was a purely mechanical 
work ; during which she usually prayed. 
But, since the entrance of Pere Tabaret, 
she forgot, in listening, her everlasting 
prayer. What did this conversation 
mean ? Who could this woman be ? And 
this young man who was not her son, and 
who yet called her mother, and at the 
same time spoke of a veritable son accused 
of being an assassin ? Before this she had 
overheard mysterious remarks between 


112 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Noel and the doctor. Into what singular 
house had she fallen ? She was a little 
afraid ; and her conscience was sorely 
troubled. Was she not sinning? She re- 
solved to tell all to the priest, when he re- 
turned. 

“ No,” said Noel, — “ no, Tabaret ; Al- 
bert has not public opinion with him. We 
are sharper than that in France, you must 
know. When a poor devil is arrested, en- 
tirely innocent, perhaps, of the crime 
charged against him, we usually throw 
stones at him. We keep all our pity for 
him, who, without doubt the criminal, 
comes before the court of assizes. As 
long as justice hesitates, we side with the 
prosecution against the prisoner. The 
moment she announces that the man is a 
criminal, all our sympathies are in favor 
of acquitting him. That’s public opinion 
You understand, however, that that affects 
me but little. I despise it to such an ex- 
tent, that if, as I dare still hope, Albert is 
not released, I will be his defender. Yes, 
I have told my father as much, the Count 
de Commarin. I will be his advocate ; 1 
will save him.” 

Gladly would the old man have thrown 
himself on Noel’s neck. He longed to say 
to him, “ We two will save him.” But he 
restrained himself. Would not the advo- 
cate misunderstand him, if he confessed ? 
He resolved, however, to reveal all if it 
became necessary, and if Albert’s interests 
took a more dangerous turn. For the pre - 
sent, he contented himself with strongly 
approving his young friend. 

“ Bravo 1 my child,” said he ; “ you 
have a noble heart. I feared to see you 
spoiled by wealth and rank. Pardon me ; 
you remain, I see, what you have always 
been in your humble position. But, tell 
me, have you, then, seen your father, the 
count ? ” 

Now, for the first time, Noel seemed to 
notice the eyes of the sister ; which, 
lighted by eager curiosity, glittered in the 
shadow like carbuncles. By a look, he 
pointed her out to the old man, and said, — 

“I have seen him; and every thing is 
arranged to my satisfaction. I will tell 
you all, in detail, by-and-by, when we are 
more by ourselves. By this bedside, I 
almost blush at my happiness.” 

Tabaret was obliged to content himself 
with this reply and this promise. Seeing 
that he should learn nothing this evening, 
he spoke of going to bed, declaring him- 
self wearied out, as the result of certain 
things he had had to do during the day. 
Noel did not urge his remaining. He 
himself was waiting, he said, for Madame 


Gerdy’s brother, who had been sent for 
several times without finding him in. He 
would be much embarrassed, he added, in 
this brother’s presence ; he did not yet 
know what conduct he ought to pursue. 
Should he tell him all? But that would 
only increase his grief. On the other 
hand, silence obliged him to play a diffi- 
cult part. The old man advised him to 
keep silent, to put off all explanation until 
later. 

“ What a fine fellow is this Noel ! ” mur- 
mured Pere Tabaret, on gaining his apart- 
ments as gently as possible. 

He had been absent from home twenty- 
four hours ; and he had to go through a 
formidable scene with his household. 
Mannette was in a particularly bad humor: 
so she declared decidedly, and once for all, 
that she would get a new place, if her 
master did not change his conduct. 

She had remained awake all night, in a 
terrible fright, listening to the least sound 
on the stairway, expecting to see her mas- 
ter brought home on a litter, assassinated. 
Then there had been great commotion in the 
house. M. Gerdy had gone out a short 
time after monsieur, and had returned two 
hours after. After he had come in, there 
had been constant inquiries for the doctor. 
Such goings on would be the death of her, 
without forgetting her temperament, which 
could not endure these constant worries. 
But Mannette forgot that the worry was 
not on her master’s account nor on Noel’s, 
but for a little affair of her own, — one of 
those handsome guards of Paris having 
promised to marry her, but for whom she 
had waited in vain, — the rascal ! 

She burst forth in reproaches, while she 
was laying the table for her master, too 
frank, she declared, to keep any thing on 
her mind, and keep her mouth closed, 
when she felt so much interest in monsieur, 
in his health and reputation. Monsieur 
made no reply, not being in the mood for 
argument. He bent his head to the squall, 
turning his back to the storm. But, when 
Mannette had finished her preparations, 
he shoved her out of the room without 
ceremony, and double locked the door. 

He busied himself in forming a new line 
of battle, and in deciding upon prompt 
and active measures. Rapidly he analyzed 
the situation. Had he been deceived in 
his investigations ? No. Had his calcula- 
tions of probabilities been erroneous ? No. 
He had started with a positive fact, the 
murder. He had discovered the particulars ; 
his inferences were correct, and must in- 
evitably point at a criminal such as he had 
indicated : and this criminal could not be 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


113 


Monsieur Daburon’s prisoner. His confi- 
dence in a judicial axiom had led him 
astray, when he pointed out Albert. 

“ See,” thought he, “ where their standard 
opinions and absurd axioms, all cut and 
dried, lead us, when they arc foolishly 
followed, like the landmarks on a road ! 
Left free to my own inspirations, I formed 
this case very profoundly. I did not trust 
to chance. The formula, ‘ Seek out the 
one whom the crime benefits ’ may be as 
often absurd as true. The heirs of a man 
assassinated are in reality all benefited by 
a murder ; while the assassin receives at 
most the watch or purse of the victim. 
Three persons were interested in the death 
of the Widow Lerouge, — Albert, Madame 
Gerdy, and the Count de Commarin. It 
is plain to sec that Albert is not the crim- 
inal. It is not Madame Gerdy, who has 
been killed by the unexpected announce- 
ment of the crime. There remains, then, 
the count. Can it be he ? He certainly 
did not do it himself. He hired some 
wretch, — a wretch of good position, if you 
please, wearing well- varnished boots of a 
good make, and smoking trabucos with an 
amber mouth-piece. These villains of good 
position ordinarily lack nerve. They cheat, 
they forge ; but they don’t assassinate. 
But here the count would simply exchange 
a rabbit for a hare. He would merely sub- 
stitute one accomplice for another still more 
dangerous. That would be idiotic ; and 
the count is an intelligent man. He is, 
therefore, out of the question. I shall have 
to start off on anolhjr tack. 

“ Another thing, the Widow Lerouge, 
who so dexterously exchanged the children 
while nursing them, would be very likely 
to undertake a number of dangerous com- 
missions. Who can prove that she has 
not made it, before now, the interest of 
some one else to get her out of the way ? 
There is a mystery here. I am impatient ; 
but I have not yet unraveled it. One 
thing is sure though, she was not assassina- 
ted to prevent Noel from recovering his 
rights. She must have been suppressed 
for some analogous reason, by a bold, expe- 
rienced scoundrel, who wore the clothing I 
fixed upon Albert. It is, then, this scent 
I must follow. And, above all, I must 
have the* past history of this obliging 
widow : and I will have it, too ; for the in- 
vestigations ordered at her birthplace will 
be in court to-morrow.” 

Returning now to Albert, Pere Tabaret 
weighed the charges which were brought 
against the young man, and reckoned the 
chances which he still had. 

“ From the look of things,” he murmured, 
8 


“I sec only luck and myself; that is to 
say, absolutely nothing in his favor at 
present. As to the charges, they arc 
countless. However, it is no use going 
over them. It is I who amassed them” 
and I know what they are worth ! At 
once every thing and nothing. What do 
signs prove, however striking they may be, 
in this case, where one ought to disbelieve 
even the witness of his own senses ? Al- 
bert is a victim of the most remarkable co- 
incidences ; but one word might explain 
them. I have seen many just such cases. 
It was even worse in the affair of my little 
tailor. At five o’clock, he bought a knife, 
which he showed to ten of his friends, say- 
ing, this is for my wife, who is an idle jade, 
and who plays me false with my servants. 
In the evening, the neighbor heard a terri- 
ble quarrel between the couple, — cries, 
threats, stamping, blows; then suddenly 
all was quiet. The next day, the tailor had 
disappeared from his house ; and they dis- 
covered the woman dead, with the very 
same knife buried to the hilt between her 
shoulders. Ah, Veil 1 it turned out it was 
not the husband who had planted it there ; 
it was a jealous lover. After that, what is 
to be believed ? Albert, it is true, will not 
give an account of how he passed the even- 
ing. That does not affect me. The ques- 
tion for me is not to prove where he was, 
but that he was not at Jonchere. Perhaps, 
after all, Gevrol was on the right track. I 
hope so, from the bottom of my heart. Yes ; 
God grant that he may be successful. My 
vanity and my mad presumption will de- 
serve the slight punishment of his triumph 
over me. What would I not give to estab- 
lish this man’s innocence ? Half of my for- 
tune would be but a small sacrifice. If I 
should be foiled ; if, after having caused 
the evil, I should find myself powerless to 
undo it 1 ” 

Pcrc Tabaret went to bed, shuddering 
at this last thought. He fell asleep, and 
had a terrible nightmare. 

Lost in that vulgar crowd, which, on the 
days when society revenges itself, presses 
about the Place dc la Roquette and watches 
the last convulsions of one condemned to 
death, he attended Albert’s execution. Pie 
saw the unhappy boy, his hands bound 
behind his back, his collar turned down, 
ascend, supported by a priest, the steep 
flight of stairs leading to the scaffold. He 
saw him upright upon the fatal platform, 
throwing his pious gaze upon the dismayed 
assembly. Soon the eyes of the condemned 
man met his own ; and, breaking his cords, 
he pointed him, Tabaret, out in the crowd, 
saying, in a loud voice, “ There is my as- 


114 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


sassiu.” Then a great clamor arose to 
curse him. He wished to escape ; but his 
feet were nailed to the ground. He tried 
to close his eyes ; he could not. A force 
unknown and irresistible compelled him to 
look. Then Albert again cried out, “ I am 
innocent ; the guilty one is — ” He pro- 
nounced some name : the crowd repeated 
the name; and he alone did not under- 
stand it. Finally the head of the con- 
demned man fell. 

The old man gave a loud cry, and awoke 
in a cold perspiration. It took him some 
time to convince himself that nothing was 
real of this which he had felt and seen, and 
that he was actually in his own house, in 
his own bed : it was only a dream 1 But 
•dreams sometimes are, they say, warnings 
from heaven. His imagination was in that 
excited condition that he made unheard of 
efforts’ to recall the name of the criminal 
pronounced by Albert. Not succeeding, he 
got up and lighted his candle. The dark- 
ness made him afraid. The night peoples 
itself with phantoms. It was no longer 
with him a question of sleep. Beset with 
these anxieties, he accused himself most 
severely, and harshly reproached the oc- 
cupation he had until now so delighted in. 
Poor humanity ! 

He was mad to fix the day when it first 
came into his head to seek employment in 
the Rue Benjamin Frere, — noble hobby, 
truly, for a man of his age, a good quiet citi- 
zen of Paris, rich, and esteemed by all ! And 
to think that he had been proud of his ex- 
ploits, that he had boasted of his cunning, 
that he had plumed himself on his keenness 
of scent, that he had been flattered by that 
ridiculous soubriquet, ‘ Tirauclair.’ Old 
fool ! What had he gained from the busi- 
ness of bloodhound? All sorts of annoy- 
ance, the contempt of the world, without 
counting the danger of contributing to the 
conviction of an innocent man. Why had 
he not taken warning by the case of the 
little tailor V 

Recalling the few satisfactions of the 
past, and comparing them with the present 
anguish, he resolved that he would have no 
more to do with it. Albert once saved, he 
would seek some amusement less danger- 
ous, and more generally appreciated. He 
would break the connection of which he 
was ashamed, and the police and justice 
might go on without him. 

At last the day, which he had awaited 
with feverish impatience, dawned. To 
pass the time, he dressed himself slowly, 
with much care, trying to occupy his mind 
with little details, until an hour had passed ; 
during which he had looked twenty times 


at the clock, to see if it had not stopped. 
In spite of all this delay, it was not eight 
o’clock when he caused himself to be an- 
nounced at the judge’s door, praying him to 
excuse, on account of the importance of his 
business, a visit too early not to be unwel- 
come. 

Excuses were superfluous. They did not 
disturb Monsieur Daburon at eight in the 
morning. Already he was at work. He 
received, with his usual kindness, the old 
amateur detective, and even joked with 
him a little on his absurdity of the night 
before. Who would have thought his 
nerves so sensitive ? Doubtless the night 
had brought deliberation. Had he recov- 
ered his old good sense ? or had he put his 
hand on the true criminal ? 

This trifling tone in a magistrate, who 
was accused of being grave even to a fault, 
troubled the old man. Did not this quiz- 
zing hide a determination to neglect all 
that he could say ? He believed it did ; 
and it was without the least deception that 
he commenced his pleading. 

He put the case more calmly this time, 
but with all the energy of a well-digested 
conviction. He addressed himself to the 
heart, he spoke to the reason ; but, although 
doubt is essentially contagious, he neither 
succeeded in convincing the judge, nor 
shaking his opinion. His strongest argu- 
ments were of no more avail against Dabu- 
ron’s absolute conviction than bullets of 
crumbs of bread against a breastplate. And, 
at his failure, he was in no way surprised. 

Pere Tabaret had on his side only a sub- 
tle theory, words ; Daburon possessed pal- 
pable testimony, facts. And such was this 
cause, that all the reasons brought forward 
by the old man to justify Albert simply 
reacted upon him, and confirmed his guilt. 

A repulse at the judge’s hands had en- 
tered too much into Tabaret’s calculations 
for him to appear troubled or discouraged. 
He declared that, for the present, he would 
insist no more : he had full confidence in 
the wisdom and impartiality of the judge 
of inquiry. It suffioed him to have put him 
on his guard against the influences which 
j he himself had unfortunately used in work- 
| ing up the case. 

He was going, he added, to busy himself 
with hunting up “ new signs.” They were 
| only at the beginning of the inquiry ; and 
i they were yet ignorant of very many 
j things, even of the past life of the Widow 
Lerouge. New facts may come to light. 
Who knows what testimony the man with 
the rings in his ears, who was now being 
pursued by Gevrol, may give. All enraged 
within, and longing to injure in some way 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


the “ idiot magistrate,” as he called the 
judge, Pere Tabaret forced himself to be 
humble and polite. He wished, lie said, to 
keep track of the examination, and to be 
informed of the result of future investiga- 
tions. He finally ended by asking perrnis- 
sion to communicate with Albert. He 
thought his services deserved this slight 
favor. He wished an interview of only tbn 
minutes without witnesses. 

Daburon refused this request. He de- 
clared, that, for the present, the prisoner 
must continue to remain strictly in solitary 
confinement. 

As a sort of consolation, he added that, 
in three or four days, he might perhaps be 
able to change this decision, provided the 
motives which caused it no longer existed. 

“ Your refusal is cruel, monsieur,” said 
Pere Tabaret ; “ but I understand it, and 
obey.” 

That was his only complaint; and he 
withdrew almost immediately, fearing that 
he could no longer master his irritation. 

He felt, that, besides the great happiness 
of saving an innocent man, compromised 
by his imprudence, he should experience 
an unspeakable delight in avenging him- 
self upon the stubbornness of the judge. 

“ Three or four days,” he muttered, 
“that is to say, three or four years for the 
unfortunate prisoner. He speaks quite at 
his ease, this kind magistrate. But Albert 
ought to know the truth now.” 

Yes, Daburon only asked three or four 
days to wring a confession from Albert, or 
at least to make him change his system of 
defence. 

The difficulty of the prosecution was in 
not being able to produce any witness 
who had seen the prisoner on the evening 
of Shrove Tuesday. 

One deposition alone to that effect would 
have so great weight, that Daburon, upon 
Tabaret’s departure, turned all his efforts 
in that direction. 

He had great hope yet. It was now 
only Saturday. The day of the murder 
was remarkable enough to fix people’s 
imemories ; and there had not been time 
yet to set on foot a proper investigation. 

Five of the most experienced spies in 
the secret service were sent to Bougival, 
supplied with photographs of Albert. 
They were to scour the entire country be- 
tween Reuil and Jonchere, to hunt, inquire 
into, and examine, to obtain the most 
precise and the most minute information. 
The photographs would greatly aid their 
efforts. They had orders to show them 
everywhere and to everybody, and even to 
leave a dozen in the place, being furnished 


115 

with a sufficient number to do so. It was 
impossible, that, on an evening when so 
many people were about, no one had ob- 
served the original of the picture either at 
the station at Reuil or upon one of the 
roads which led to Jonchere, — the high- 
way, or the road by the water’s edge. 

These arrangements made, the judge of 
inquiry proceeded to the palais de justice, 
and 6ent for his prisoner. 

He had already in the morning received 
a report, informing him hour by hour of 
the deeds, gestures, and utterances of the 
prisoner, carefully watched. Nothing in 
him, the report said, declared the criminal. 
He appeared sad, but not despairing. He 
had not cried out, nor threatened, nor 
cursed at justice, nor even spoke of the 
fatal deed. After having eaten lightly, he 
went to the window of his cell, and had there 
remained standing for more than an hour. 
Then he laid down, and had quietly gone 
to sleep. 

“ What an iron constitution ! ” thought 
Daburon, when the prisoner entered his 
office. 

Albert was no longer the despairing 
man, who the night before, dizzy with the 
multiplicity of charges, overcome by the 
rapidity of the blows, had writhed beneath 
the gaze of the judge of inquiry, and ap- 
peared ready to faint. Innocent or guilty, 
his course had been taken ; his face left no 
doubt of that. His eyes expressed that 
resolution, careless of a sacrifice freely 
made, and a certain haughtiness which 
might be taken for disdain, but which ex- 
pressed the noble feeling of an injured 
man. In him was seen a man self-reliant, 
who might be shaken but never overcome 
by misfortune. 

At this countenance, the judge knew 
that he must change his mode of attack. 
He recognized one of those natures, which, 
attacked, was only provoked to resistance, 
and, threatened, was only rendered obsti- 
nate. Renouncing his efforts to frighten, 
he attempted to soften him. It was a hack- 
neyed trick, but one always successful, 
like certain pathetic scenes at theatres. 
The criminal who has girt up his energy 
to sustain the shock of intimidation, finds 
himself without defence against the wheed- 
ling of kindness, the greater in proportion 
to its lack of sincerity. Now tenderness 
would cause Daburon’s triumph. What 
an avowal he knew would burst forth in 
tears 1 No one knew so well as he. how to 
touch the cords which vibrate still even 
in the most abandoned heart, — honor, 
love, family. 

To Albert, he became kind and friendly, 


116 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


full of the liveliest compassion. Unfortu- 
nate man ! how much he had had to suffer, 
— lie whose whole life had been like one 
long enchantment. How every thing had 
fallen about him in ruins, at a single blow ! 
Who could have foreseen all this in the. 
time when he was the one hope of a wealthy 
and illustrious house ! Calling up the past, 
the judge pictured to him the most touch- 
ing reminiscences of his early youth, and 
stirred up the ashes of all his extinct affec- 
tions. Using and abusing all that he 
knew of the life of the prisoner, he mar- 
tyred himself by the most mournful allu- 
sions to Claire. How could he persist in 
bearing alone his great misfortune ? Had 
he no one in the world who would deem it 
happiness to share his sufferings? Why 
this morose silence ? Should he not rather 
hasten to rescue her whose very life de- 
pended upon his? What was necessary 
to that end ? But a single word. Then 
he would be, if not free, at least returned 
to the world. His prison would become an 
habitable abode, no longer solitary; his 
friends would visit him : he might receive 
whomever he saw fit. 

It was no longer a judge who spoke ; it 
was a father, who still keeps in his heart 
indulgence for his son. 

Daburon went on. He would for a mo- 
ment imagine himself in Albert’s position. 
What would be his condition after the ter- 
rible discovery ? He would scarcely dare 
question himself. He would dwell upon 
the murder of the Widow Lerouge ; he 
would explain it to himself ; he would al- 
most excuse it. (Another trap.) It was 
certainly an enormous crime, but not one 
revolting to conscience or to reason. It was 
one of those crimes which society might, if 
not forget, at least forgive up to a certain 
point, because the motive was not a dis- 
graceful one. What tribunal would fail to 
find extenuating circumstances for a mo- 
ment of frenzy so excusable? For was 
not the first the greatest criminal, the 
Count de Commarin ? Was it not his folly 
that prepared the way for this terrible de- 
nouement? His son had been the victim 
of a fatality, and was in the highest degree 
to be pitied. 

Upon this text, Daburon spoke for a long 
time, seeking those things most suitable in 
his opinion to soften the hardened heart of 
an assassin. And he arrived always at 
the same conclusion, — the wisdom of con- 
fessing. But he wasted his eloquence pre- 
cisely as Tabarct had wasted his. Albert 
appeared in no way affected. His replies 
were of the shortest. He began and ended, 
as at first, in protesting his innocence. 


One test, which had often given the de- 
sired result, now remained to be tried. 

On this same day, Saturday, Albert was 
confronted with the corpse ot the Widow 
Lerouge. He appeared impressed by the 
sad sight, but no more than any one would 
be, if forced to look at the victim of an as- 
sassination four days after the crime. One 
of the bystanders exclaiming, — 

“Ah, if she could but speak!” he re- 
plied, “ That would be great good fortune 
for me.” 

Since morning, Daburon had not ob- 
tained the least advantage. He had to ac- 
knowledge the failure of his plot ; and 
here this last attempt had grounded. The 
unmoved calmness of the prisoner filled to 
overflowing the exasperation of this man 
so sure of his facts. His spite was evident 
to all, when, dropping suddenly his wheed- 
ling, he harshly gave the orders to re-con- 
duct the prisoner to his cell. 

“I will compel him to confess,” he 
ground between his teeth. 

Perhaps he regretted those gentle instru- 
ments of investigation of the middle ages, 
which compelled the prisoner to say what- 
ever they wanted him to. Never, thought he, 
did any one ever meet a prisoner like this. 
What could he reasonably hope for from 
this system of persistent denial ? This ob- 
stinacy, absurd in the presence of absolute 
proofs, drove the judge into a rage. 
Albert, confessing his guilt, would have 
found him disposed to pitv ; denying it, he 
opposed himself to an implacable enemy. 

It was the very falseness of the situation 
which misled and blinded this magistrate, 
naturally so kind and generous. Having 
previously wished Albert innocent, he now 
absolutely longed to prove him guilty, and 
that for a hundred reasons which he was 
unable to analyze- He remembered, too, 
his having had the Viscount de Commarin 
for a rival, and his having nearly assassi- 
nated him. Had he not repented even 
with remorse liis having signed the war- 
rant of arrest, and accepted the duty of in- 
tivestigation ? Tabaret’s incomprehensible 
change troubled him, too. 

All these feelings, combined, inspired 
Daburon with a feverish hatred, urging 
him on in the path which he had chosen. 
In future, it would be less the proofs of 
Albert’s guilt which lie sought for than the 
justification of his own conduct to himself 
as judge. The investigation rankled, as if 
it were a personal matter. 

In fact, were the prisoner innocent, lie 
would become inexcusable in his own eyes ; 
and, in proportion as lie reproached himself 
I the more severely, and as the feelings of his 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


117 


own wrongs grew, he was the more disposed 
to try every tiling to conquer this ancient 
rival, even to abusing his own power. The 
logic of events urgedi him on. It seemed as 
though his honor itself were at stake ; and 
he displayed a passionate activity, such as 
had never been seen before in any inves- 
tigation. 

All Sunday, Daburon passed in listening 
to the reports of his agents at Bougival. 

They had spared no trouble, they stated ; 
but they could report no new developments. 

They had heard many speak of a woman, 
who had pretended, they said, to have seen 
the assassin leaving the Widow Lerouge’s 
house ; but no one had been able to point 
this woman out to them, or even to give 
them her name. 

But they all thought it their duty to in- 
form the judge that another inquiry was 
going on at the same time with theirs. 
It was under the charge of Pere Tabaret, 
who personally scoured the country in all 
directions in a cabriolet drawn by a very 
swift horse. He must have acted with 
great promptness; for, everywhere that 
they presented themselves, he had antici- 
ated them. He appeared to have under 
is orders a dozen men, four of whom at 
least certainly belonged to the Rue Jerusa- 
lem. All the agents had met him ; and he 
had spoken to all of them. To one, he had 
said, — 

“ What the devil are you showing this 
photograph for ? In less than no time you 
will pick up a witness, who, to gain three 
francs, will describe some one more like 
the picture than the picture itself.” 

He had met another agent on the road, 
and had laughed at him. 

“You are a simple fellow,” he cried out 
to him, “ to hunt for a hiding man in the 
highway ; look a little aside, and you may 
find him.” 

Finally he had accosted two who were 
together in a cafe at Bougival, and had 
taken them aside. 

I have him,” he said to them. “ He is 
a smart fellow ; he passed by Chatois. 
Three people have seen him, — two railway 
employes, and a third person whose testi- 
mony will be decisive ; for she spoke to 
him. He was smoking.” 

Daburon was so angry at this with 
Pere Tabaret, that, on the instant he 
started for Bougival, firmly resolved to 
bring this too zealous man back to Paris, 
and to give him some occupation more in 
the interests of justice. This trip was use- 
less. Tabaret, cabriolet, swift horse, and 
the twelve men had all disappeared, or at 
least were not to be found. 


On returning home, much fatigued and 
very angry, the judge of inquiry found the 
following despatch from the chief of the 
detective force ; it was brief, and to the 
point, — 

“ Rouen, Sunday. 

“ The man is found. This evening we 
start for Paris. The most valuable testi- 
mony. Gevrol.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

Monday morning, at nine o’clock, Dab- 
uron was preparing to start for the palais 
de justice, where he expected to find Gev- 
rol and his man, and perhaps Pere Taba- 
ret. 

His preparations were nearly made, when 
his servant announced that a young lady, 
accompanied by another more elderly, 
asked to speak with him. 

She declined giving her name, saying, 
however, that she would not refuse it, if 
that was absolutely necessary in order to 
be received. 

“ Let her enter,” said the judge. 

He thought it might be a relation of 
some one of the prisoners, with whose busi- 
ness he had been employed before the Jon- 
clicre crime occurred. He determined to 
make short work of her, if she were trouble- 
some. 

He was standing before his mantel, hunt- 
ing for an address in a plate filled with vis- 
iting cards. At the sound of the opening 
of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress 
gliding by the window, he did not take the 
trouble to move, did not deign even to turn 
his head. He contented himself with 
merely casting a careless glance into the 
mirror. 

But he immediately started with a move- 
ment of dismay, as if he had seen a ghost. 
In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate, 
which fell noisily to the hearth, and broke 
into a thousand pieces. 

“ Claire,” he stammered, “ Claire ! ” 

And, as if he feared equally either his 
being deceived by an illusion or the actu- 
ally seeing her whose name he pronounced, 
he turned slowly. 

It was truly Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. 

This young girl, usually so proud and re- 
served, had had courage to come to his house 
alone, or almost alone ; for her governess, 
whom she had left in the antechamber, 
counted as no one. She was obeying some 
powerful emotion ; since it made her for- 
get her habitual timidity. 

Never, even in the time when a sight of 


118 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


her was his greatest happiness, had she ap- 
peared more fascinating. Her beauty, or- 
dinarily veiled by a sweet sadness, beamed 
forth, and dazzled him. Her features had 
an animation which he had never seen in 
them before. In her eyes, rendered more 
brilliant by recent tears, even now hardly 
wiped away, shone the noblest resolution. 
One could see that she was conscious of 
having a great duty to perform, and that 
she would accomplish it, if not with pleas- 
ure, at least with that simplicity which in 
her was heroism. 

She advanced calm and dignified, and 
held out her hand to the magistrate in that 
English style that some ladies can imitate 
so gracefully. 

“ We have always been friends, have we 
not ? ” she said with a sad smile. 

The magistrate did not dare take the 
ungloved hand she held out to him. It 
was as much as he dared to touch the end 
of her fingers, as if he feared too great 
an emotion. 

“ Yes,” he replied indistinctly, “ I have 
been always devoted to you.” 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges sat down in the 
easy chair, where, two nights previously, 
Pere Tabaret had planned Albert’s arrest. 

“ Do you know why I have come ? ” 
asked the young girl. 

With a nod, he replied in the affirma- 
tive 

He divined her object only too easily ; 
and he was asking himself, in fact, whether 
he ought to resist prayers from such a 
mouth. What could she ask that he 
would have the heart to refuse ? Ah, if he 
had foreseen this ! 

“ I only knew of this dreadful story yes- 
terday,” pursued Claire ; “ they considered 
it wise to hide it from me ; and, but for my 
devoted Schmidt, I should yet be ignorant 
of it all. What a night have I passed ! I 
was at first terrified ; but, when they told 
me that all depended upon you, my fears 
were dispelled. It is for my sake, is it 
not ? that you have taken charge of this 
trial ? Oh, you are a noble man ! How can 
I ever express my thanks ! ” 

What humiliation for the honest magis- 
trate were these heartfelt thanks 1 Yes, he 
had at first thought of Mademoiselle d’Ar- 
langes ; but since — He bowed his head, 
to avoid that beautiful sight of Claire, so 
pure, so daring. 

“ Do not thank me, mademoiselle,” he 
stammered ; “ I have not the claim that 
you think upon your gratitude.” 

Claire had already noticed the magis- 
trate’s agitation. The trembling of liis 
voice attracted her attention ; but she did 


not suspect the cause. She thought that 
her presence recalled sad memories, that 
he doubtless still loved her, and that he 
was suffering for her. This idea saddened 
her, and filled her with self-reproach. 

“ And yet, monsieur,” she continued, “ l 
thank you all the same. I should never 
have dared go to another judge, to 
speak to an entire stranger 1 For what 
value would he attach to my words, not 
knowing me ? While you, you, so gener- 
ous, will reassure me, will tell me by what 
unhappy mistake he has been arrested and 
put in prison.” 

“ Alas ! ” sighed the magistrate, so low 
that Claire scarcely heard or understood 
the terrible meaning of the exclamation. 

“With you,” she continued, “I do not 
fear. You are my friend, you have told 
me ; you will not refuse my prayers. Give 
him his liberty quickly. I do not know 
exactly of what he is accused; but I 
swear to you that he is innocent.” 

Claire spoke in the positive manner of 
one who saw no obstacle in the way to the 
very simple and natural desire which she had 
expressed. A formal assurance given bv her 
ought to be amply sufficient ; in a word, Dab- 
uron was to repair every thing. The judge 
was silent. He admired this saint-like ig- 
norance of every thing, this artless and 
frank confidence which doubted nothing. 
She had commenced by wounding him in- 
advertently, it is true ; but he quite forgot 
that. 

He was really honest, good as the best, 
as is proved from the fact, that, at the mo- 
ment of unveiling the fatal truth, he shud- 
dered. He hesitated to pronounce the 
words, whose breath, like a whirlwind, 
would overturn the fragile edifice of this 
young girl’s happiness. Humiliated, de- 
spised, he was going to have his revenge ; 
but it brought him no satisfaction. 

“ And it I should tell you, mademoiselle,” 
he commenced, “ that Albert is not inno- 
cent — ” 

She half-raised herself with a protesting 
gesture. He continued, — 

“ If I should tell you that he is guilty ? ” 

“ O monsieur ! ” interrupted” Claire, 

“ you cannot think it.” 

“ I do think it, mademoiselle,” continued 
the magistrate in a sad voice ; “ and I must 
add that I am morally certain of it.” 

Claire looked at the magistrate with pro- 
found amazement. Can this really be- he 
who is speaking to her? Did she hear 
him aright? Did she understand? She 
was really in doubt. Had he answered 
seriously ? Was he not abusing her by an 
I unworthy, cruel jest ? She asked herself this 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


119 


with a sort of wildness ; for every thing ap- 
peared possible, probable, rather than°that 
which he had spoken. 

Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued 
in a tone, expressive of the sincerest pity, — 

“ I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, 
mademoiselle ; but I have the sad courage 
to tell you the truth, and you must sum- 
mon yours to hear it. Much better that 
you should know all from the mouth of a 
friend. Summon, then, all your fortitude ; 
strengthen your noble soul against a most 
dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mis- 
take. Justice has not been deceived. 
The Viscount de Commarin is accused ot an 
assassination ; and it is absolutely — abso- 
lutely, understand me — proved that he 
committed it.” 

Like a doctor, who pours out drop by 
drop a dangerous medicine, Daburon pro- 
nounced slowly, word by word, this last sen- 
tence. He watched carefully the result, 
ready to cease, if the shock was too great. 
He did not suppose that this young girl, 
timid to excess, with a sensitiveness almost 
a disease, would be able to hear without 
flinching such a revelation. He expected 
a burst of despair, tears, distressing cries. 
She might perhaps faint away ; and he 
stood ready to call in the good Schmidt. 

He was deceived. Claire drew herself 
up full of energy and valor. The flame of 
indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried 
her tears. 

“ It is false,” she cried ; “ and those who 
say it are liars. He cannot be ; no, he can- 
not be an assassin. If he were here, and 
should himself say, ‘It is true/ I should 
refuse to believe it : I should still cry out, 
‘ It is false.’ ” 

“ He has not yet confessed it,” continued 
the judge ; “ but he will confess it : and, it 
not, there are more proofs than are needed 
to convict him. The charges against him 
are as impossible to deny as is the sun 
which shines upon us.” 

“ Ah ! well,” interrupted Mademoiselle 
d’Arlanges, in a voice which thrilled his 
soul, “ I assert, I repeat, that justice is de- 
ceived. Yes,” she persisted, stopping a 
gesture of denial from the judge, — “yes, 
he is innocent. I am sure ot it ; and I will 
proclaim it, even were the whole world to 
join with you in accusing him. Do you not 
see that I understand him better than he 
can understand himself Y that my faith in 
him is absolute, as that which I have in 
God? that I would doubt myself before 
doubting him ? ” 

The judge of inquiry attempted timidly 
to make an° objection. Claire interrupted 

him, — 


“ You force me, then, monsieur,” said she, 
“ in order to overcome you, to forget that I 
am a young girl, and that I am not talking to 
my mother, but to a man. For his sake, I 
can bear it ! It is four years, monsieur, 
since we first loved, and told each other of it. 
Since that time, I have not kept from him 
one of my thoughts : he has not hid from 
me one of his. For four years, we have 
never had a secret between us : he lived in 
me, as I lived in him. I alone can say 
how worthy he is to be loved ; I alone know 
all that grandeur of soul, nobility of 
thought, generosity of sentiment, from 
which you have so easily made an assassin. 
And I have seen him, oh ! so unhappy, while 
all the world envied his lot. He was like 
me, alone in the world; his father never 
loved him. Sustained one by the other, 
we have passed many a sad day ; and it is 
at the very moment our trial was ending 
that he has become a criminal. Why ? 
tell me why ? ” 

“ Neither the name nor fortune of the 
Count de Commarin would descend to him, 
mademoiselle; and the knowledge of it 
came upon him with a sudden shock. One 
old woman alone was able to prove this. 
To protect his position, he killed her.” 

“ What infamous,” cried the young girl, 
“ what shameful, wicked calumny ! I know, 
monsieur, this story of falling greatness ; 
he himself told me of it. It is true, that 
for three days this misfortune unmanned 
him ; but, if he was dismayed, it was on my 
account more than his own. He was dis- 
tressed at thinking that perhaps I should 
be grieved, when he confessed to me that 
he could no longer give me all that his 
love dreatned of. I grieved ? Ah ! what 
to me is this great name, this immense 
wealth ? I owe to them all the unhappiness 
of my life. Was it, then, for their sake that 
I loved him ? It was thus that I replied to 
him ; and he, so sad, immediately recovered 
his gayety. He thanked me, saying, ‘ You 
love me; the rest is of no consequence.’ 
I chided him, then, for having doubted me ; 
and, after that, would he thus cowardly 
assassinate an old woman ? You dare not 
repeat it.” 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges ceased, a smile 
of victory on her lips. That smile meant, 
“At last I have attained my end: you 
are conquered ; what can you reply to all 
that I have said ? ” 

The judge of inquiry did not long leave 
this smiling illusion to the unhappy child. 
He did not perceive the cruelty, the shock 
of his persistence. Always the one idea. 
In persuading Claire, he would justify his 
own conduct to himself. 


120 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“You do not know, mademoiselle,” be 
continued, “ what giddiness may overthrow 
the reason of an honest man. It is only at 
the time a thing escapes us that we feel the 
greatness of the loss. God keep me irom 
doubting all that which you have said ! but 
icture to yourself the immensity of the 
low which has fallen upon M. de Comma- 
rin. Think of the despair to which he was 
driven on leaving you, and the extremities 
to which it might lead him 1 He might 
have had a moment of wildness, and have 
done the deed without perceiving its enor- 
mity. In this way the crime may be 
explained.” 

Mademoiselle d'Arlanges’ face grew 
deathly pale, and betrayed the utmost ter- 
ror. The judge saw that at last doubt 
began to affect her noble and pure 
thoughts. 

“ He might, then, have been mad,” she 
murmured. 

“ Possibly,” replied the judge ; “ but the 
circumstances of the crime denote a well- 
laid plan. Believe me, then, mademoiselle, 
and do not be too confident. Wait, prayer- 
fully, the issue of this unhappy trial. Lis- 
ten to my voice ; it is that of a friend. 
You used to have in me the confidence a 
daughter gives to her father, you have often 
told me ; do not, then, refuse my advice. 
Keep silence ; wait. Hide your real griei ; 
you may hereafter regret having exposed 
it. Young, inexperienced, without a 
mother, alas ! you have sadly misplaced 
your affections.” 

“ No, monsieur, no,” stammered Claire. 
“ Ah ! ” she added, “ you speak like the 
rest of the world, — the prudent, egotistical 
world, which I despise and hate.” 

“ Poor child ! ” continued Daburon, piti- 
less, even in his compassion, “ unhappy girl ! 
this is your first deception ! Nothing can 
be imagined more terrible. Few women 
would know how to bear it But you are 
young ; you are brave ; your life will not be 
rained. Hereafter you will feel horrified 
at this crime. There is no wound, I know 
by experience, which time does not heal.” 

Claire tried to grasp what the judge was 
saying; but she heard only confused 
sounds ; the meaning entirely escaped her. 

“ I do not understand, monsieur,” she 
broke in. “ What advice, then, would you 
give me? ” 

“ The only one that reason dictates, and 
that my affection for you can suggest, mad- 
emoiselle. I speak to you like a tender 
and devoted brother. I say to you, ‘ Cour- 
age, Claire : give yourself up to the saddest, 
greatest sacrifice which honor can ask of 
a young girl. Weep, yes, weep for your 


deceived love ; but renounce it. Pray hea- 
ven to send you forgetfulness. He whom 
you have loved is no longer worthy of 
you.” 

The judge stopped, a little frightened. 
Mademoiselle d’Arlanges had becomo 
livid. 

But, although the body failed, the soul 
still remained firm. 

“ You said, a moment since,” she mur- 
mured, “ that he might have committed 
this crime in a moment of distraction, in a 
fit of madness ? ” 

“ Yes, it is possible.” 

“ Then, monsieur, not knowing what he 
did, he is no criminal.” 

The judge of inquiry forgot a certain 
troublesome question which he had put to 
himself one morning in bed after his sick- 
ness. 

“ Neither justice nor society, mademoi- 
selle,” he replied, “ can take that into 
account. To God alone, who sees into the 
depths of our hearts, it belongs to judge, to 
decide upon these questions which human 
justice must pass by. In our sight, M. de 
Commarin is a criminal. There may be 
certain extenuating circumstances to soften 
the punishment ; but the moral stain is the 
same. Even if he were acquitted, — and I 
hope he may be, but without hope, — he 
will always wear the dishonor, the stain of 
blood cowardly shed. Then give him up.” 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges stopped the 
judge with a look which flashed the most 
vivid resentment. 

“ Then,” she cried, “ you counsel me to 
abandon him in his misfortune. All the 
world deserts him ; and your prudence ad- 
vises me to act with the world. Men may 
act thus, they tell me, when one of their 
friends is ruined ; but women never. Look 
about you; however humiliated, however 
wretched, however fallen, you always find the 
wife near, to sustain and console. When the 
last friend has boldly taken to flight, when 
the last relation has abandoned you, the 
wife remains.” 

The judge regretted his having been 
carried away a little too far. Claire’s 
excitement frightened him. He tried in 
vain to stop her. 

“ I may be timid,” she continued with 
increasing energy ; “ but I am no coward. 
I have chosen Albert voluntarily from all. 
Whatever happens to him, I will never 
desert him. No : I will never say, ‘ I do 
not know this man.’ Pie would have given 
me half of his prosperity, and of his glory, 
I will share, whether he expects it or not, 
half of his shame and misfortune. Between 
two, the burden will be less weighty. 


121 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Strike I I will cling so closely to him that 
no blow can touch him without hurting me, 
too. You counsel me to forget him. Teach 
me, then, how. I forget him? Could I, 
if I wished ? But I do not wish it. I love 
him. It is no more in my power to cease 
loving him than it is to arrest, by the sole 
effort of my will, the beating of my heart. 
He is a prisoner, accused of an assassina- 
tion. So be it. I love him. He is a 
criminal. What of that? I love him. You 
condemn, you dishonor him. Condemned, 
dishonored, I still love him. You will send 
him to prison. I will follow him ; and in the 
rison, under the convict’s dress, I will love 
im still. Let him fall to the bottom of 
the abyss. I will fall with him. My life 
is his, at his disposal. No, nothing shall 
separate us, nothing but death 1 And, if 
he must mount the scaffold, I shall die, I 
know well, with the blow which fells him.” 

Daburon had buried his face in his 
hands. He would not for worlds have 
Claire perceive the emotion with which 
he was affected. 

“ How she loves him 1 ” he thought, 
* how she loves him 1 ” 

His spirit was sunk in the darkest 
thoughts. All the stings of jealousy were 
rending him. 

What would not be his delight, if he 
were the object of so irresistible a passion 
as this which shone before him 1 What 
would he not give in return 1 He had, too, 
a young and ardent soul, a burning thirst 
for love. But who would be thus troubled 
for him? He was esteemed, respected, 
perhaps feared, but not loved ; and he 
never would be. Was he, then, unworthy 
of it ? Why do so many men pass through 
life destitute of love, while others, the vil- 
est beings sometimes, seem to possess a 
mysterious power, which charms, seduces, 
carries away, which inspires in the object 
of their affection a blind, impetuous long- 
ing to sacrifice herself for them ? Have 
women, then, no reason nor discernment ? 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges’ silence brought 
the judge back to himself. He raised 
his eyes to her. Overcome by the 
violence of her enthusiasm, she fell back 
in her chair, and breathed with such diffi- 
culty that Daburon feared that she was 
going to faint, fie moved his hand quickly 
to the bell upon his* desk, to summon aid ; 
but Claire was quicker still, and stopped 
him. 

“ What would you do ? ” she asked. 

“You seemed suffering so,” he stam- 
mered, “that I — ” 

“It is nothing, monsieur,” replied she. 
“ I may seem weak ; but it is nothing. I 


am very strong, believe me, very strong. 
It is true that I suffer, as I never believed 
that one could suffer. It is cruel for a 
young girl to have to do violence to all 
her feelings. You ought to be satisfied, 
monsieur. I have torn aside all veils ; and 
you have read even the inmost recesses 
of my heart. But I do not regret it ; it was 
for his sake. That which I do regret is 
my having lowered myself so far as to 
defend him ; but he will forgive me that 
one doubt. Your persistence startled me so. 
A man like him does not need defence : 
his innocence must be proved ; and, God 
helping me, I will prove it.” 

As Claire was half-rising to depart, 
Daburon detained her by a gesture. In 
his blindness, he thought he would be do- 
ing wrong to leave this poor young girl in 
the slightest way deceived. Having done 
so much at the beginning, he persuaded 
himself that his duty bade him go on to 
the end. He said to himself, in all good 
faith, that thus he should save Claire her- 
self, and spare her in the future from bitter 
regrets. The surgeon who has commenced 
a painful operation does not leave it half- 
finished because the patient struggles, 
suffers, and cries out. 

“ It is painful, mademoiselle, — ” he 
began. 

Claire would not let him finish. 

“ Enough, monsieur,” said she : “ all 
that you can say will be of no avail. I re- 
spect your unhappy conviction. I ask, in 
return, the same regard for mine. If you 
were truly my friend, I should ask you to 
aid me in the task of saving him, to which 
I shall devote myself; but you, doubtless, 
are not willing.” 

Claire seeme.d to be continually irrita- 
ting the unhappy magistrate. With her 
woman’s instinct, she had arrived at the 
same result as Pere Tabaret with his logic. 
Women neither analyze nor reason : they 
feel and think. Instead of discussing, they 
affirm ; and here, perhaps, arises their su- 
periority. As for Claire, Daburon did not 
feel that she was his enemy ; and yet she 
treated him like one. 

The judge of inquiry resented strongly 
this injury. Annoyed by his scruples of 
conscience on one side, and by his convic- 
tions on the other, tossed about between 
duty and feelings, embarrassed by the har- 
ness of his profession, he was incapable of 
simple reflection. For three days, he had 
acted like a stubborn child. Why this ob- 
stinacy, which would not admit the possi- 
bility of Albert’s innocence? Investiga- 
tions in all cases have the same aim. But 
he, usually favorable to a prisoner, would 


122 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


not admit for a moment that there might 
be a mistake in this case. 

“ If you knew the proofs which I have 
in my hand, mademoiselle,” he said in a 
cold tone, which expressed his determina- 
tion not to give way to anger, “ if I should 
show them to you, you would have no longer 
a doubt.” 

“Speak, monsieur,” cried Claire imperi- 
ously. 

“ You wish it, mademoiselle ? Very well ; 
I will give you in detail all the charges 
made by justice. I will explain every 
thing; you shall know all. But no; why 
should I harass you with all the proofs ? 
There is one which alone is decisive. The 
murder was committed on the evening of 
Shrove Tuesday ; and the prisoner cannot 
give an account of what he did on that 
evening. He went out, however, and re- 
turned home about two o’clock in the 
morning, his clothes soiled and torn, his 
gloves frayed.” 

“ Oh ! enough, monsieur enough ! ” broke 
in Claire, whose eyes beamed once more 
with happiness. “You say it was on 
Shrove Tuesday evening ? ” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ Ah ! I was sure,” she cried trium- 
phantly. “ I told you truly that he could not 
be the criminal.” 

She raised her hands; and, from the 
movement of her lips, it was evident that 
she was praying. 

The expression of the most perfect trust, 
represented by some of the Italian paint- 
ers, illuminated her beautiful face ; while 
she gave thanks to God in a burst of thank- 
fulness. 

The magistrate was so disconcerted, 
that he forgot to admire her. He awaited 
an explanation. 

“ Weil? ” he asked impatiently. 

“Monsieur,” replied Claire, “if that is 
your strongest proof, it exists no longer. 
Albert passed the entire evening you speak 
of with me.” 

“ With you ? ” stammered the judge. 

“ Yes, with me, at my house.” 

Daburon was stunned. Was he dream- 
ing ? His arms fell. 

“ What 1 ” he exclaimed, “ the viscount 
was at your house ? And your grandmother, 
your governess, your servants, did they all 
see him and speak to him ? ” 

“ No, monsieur ; he came and went 
away in secret. He wished no one to see 
him ; he desired to be alone with me.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the judge with a sigh of re- 
lief. 

The sigh was significant. It meant, 

“ It’s all clear, — only too evident. She is 


determined to save him, at the risk even of 
compromising her reputation. Poor girl ! 
The idea must have just occurred to her.” 

This “ Ah ! ” was interpreted very dif- 
ferently by Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. She 
thought that Daburon was astonished at her 
consenting to receive Albert. 

“ Your surpise is an insult, monsieur,” 
said she. 

“ Mademoiselle ! ” 

“ A daughter of my family, monsieur, 
may receive her fiancee , without danger of 
any thing occurring for which she should 
blush.” 

She said this, and at the same time was 
red with shame, grief, and anger. She be- 
gan to hate Daburon. 

“ I had no such insulting thought as you 
imagine, mademoiselle,” said the magistrate. 

“ I was only wondering why Monsieur de 
Commarin went secretly to your house, 
when his approaching marriage gives him 
the right to present himself openly, at all 
hours. I wondered still further, how, on 
such a visit, he could get his clothes in the 
condition in which we found them.” 

“ That is to say, monsieur,” replied Claire 
bitterly, “ that you doubt my word.” 

“ The circumstances are such, mademoi- 
selle, — ” 

“ You accuse me, then, of falsehood, mon- 
sieur ? Why, were we criminals, we should 
not descend to justifying ourselves ; we 
should never pray nor ask for pardon ” 

The haughty, contemptuous tone of Mad- 
emoiselle d’Arlanges could only anger the 
judge. How harshly she treated him ! 
And simply because he would not consent 
to be her dupe. 

“ Above all, mademoiselle,” he answered 
severely, “lama magistrate ; and I have 
a duty to perform. A crime has been 
committed. Every thing tells me that 
Albert de Commarin is the guilty man. I 
arrest him; I examine him; and I find 
against him overwhelming proofs. You 
come and tell me that they are false ; that 
is not enough. As long as you addressed 
me as a friend, you have found me kind 
and gentle. Now it is the judge to whom 
you speak : and it is the judge who replies, 

‘ Prove it.’ ” 

“ My word, monsieur, — ” 

“ Prove it ! ” 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges arose slowly, 
throwing upon the judge a look filled with 
astonishment and suspicion. 

* Shall you, then, be glad, monsieur,” 
she asked, “ to find Albert guilty? Will 
it give you pleasure to convict him ? Do 
you hate this prisoner, whose fate is in vour 
hands? They told me the truth, then. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


123 


Can you talk of impartiality ? Do not 
certain memories weigh heavily in the 
scale ? Are you sure that you are not 
armed with the law, revenging yourself 
upon a rival ? ” 

“ This is too much,” murmured the judge, 

— “ this is too much.” 

“ Do you know the unusual, the dan- 
gerous position we are in at this mo- 
ment? One day, I remember, you de- 
clared your love for me. It appeared to 
me sincere and honest ; it touched me. I 
was obliged to refuse you, because I loved 
another; and I pitied you. Now that 
other is accused of assassination ; and you 
are his judge, and I between you stand 
praying for him. In accepting the duty of 
investigation, you seemed to declare in his 
favor ; and yet they say you are against 
him.” 

Claire’s every word fell upon Daburon’s 
heart like a blow on his face. 

Was it really she who was speaking ? 
Whence came this sudden boldness, which 
made her recall all those words which 
found an echo in his heart ? 

“ Mademoiselle,” said he, “ your grief car- 
ries you beyond yourself. From you alone 
could I pardon what you have just said. 
Your ignorance of this matter makes you 
unjust. If you think that Albert’s fate de- 
pends upon my pleasure, you deceive your- 
self. To convince me is nothing; it is 
necessary to convince others. That 1 
should believe you is all very natural ; but 
what weight will others attach to your tes- 
timony, when you come before them with 
a story, true, — most true, I am confident, 

— but highly improbable.” 

Tears came into Claire’s eyes. 

“ If I have unjustly offended you, mon- 
sieur,” she said, “ pardon me : my unhappi- 
ness makes me forget myself.” 

“You cannot offend me, mademoiselle,” 
replied the magistrate. “ I have already 
told you that I am devoted to your ser- 
vice.” 

“ Then, monsieur, help me to prove the 
truth of what I have said. I will tell you 

every thing.” . . 

Daburon was fully convinced that Claire 
was seeking to deceive him ; but her bold- 
ness astonished him. 

He wondered what fable she was con- 
cocting. 

“ Monsieur, ’’began Claire, “ you know what 
obstacles have stood in the way of my mar- 
riage with Albert. The Count de Commann 
di(f not wish me for a daughter-in-law, be- 
cause I was poor, because I possessed noth- 
in<r. It took Albert five years to triumph 
over his father’s obj options. Twice the 


count yielded ; twice he recalled the con- 
sent which he said had been extorted from 
him. At last, about a month ago, he gave 
his consent of his own accord. But these 
hesitations, delays, refusals, had deeply 
hurt my grandmamma. You know her 
sensitive character; and, in this case, I 
must confess she was right. After the 
wedding day had been fixed, the marquise 
declared that we should not be comprom- 
ised and laughed at for any apparent haste 
in contracting so advantageous a marriage, 
as we had never before been accused of am- 
bition. She decided, therefore, that, until 
the publication of the banns, Albert should 
only be admitted into the house every other 
day, for two hours in the afternoon, and 
that in her presence. We could not move 
her from this determination. Such was the 
state of affairs, when, on Sunday morning, 
a note came to me from Albert. He told 
me that pressing business would prevent 
his coming, although that was his regular 
day. What could have happened to keep 
him away ? I feared some evil. The 
next day I waited, impatient, distracted, 
until his valet brought a note for me to 
Schmidt. In that letter, monsieur, Albert 
entreated me to grant him a secret interview. 
It was necessary, he wrote, that he should 
have a long conversation with me alone, 
and at once. Our whole future, he added, 
depended upon this interview. He left me 
to choose the day and hour, urging me to 
confide in no one. I did not hesitate. I 
sent him word to meet me on Tuesday 
evening, at the little garden gate, which 
opened into an unoccupied street. To no- 
tify me of his presence, he was to knock 
just as nine o’clock sounded from the 
tower of Les Invalides. I knew that my 
grandmother had invited a number of 
her friends for that evening ; and I thought 
that, by pretending a headache, I might 
retire early, and so be free. I knew, also, 
that Madame d’Arlanges would keep 
Schmidt with her.” 

“ Excuse me, mademoiselle,” interrupted 
Daburon, “ what day did you write to 
Albert?” 

“ Tuesday.” 

“ Can you fix the hour ? ” 

« I must have sent the letter between 
two and three o’clock.” 

“ Thanks, mademoiselle. Go on, I be- 
seech you.” 

“ All my anticipations,” continued Claire, 
“ were realized. I escaped in the evening ; 
and I descended to the garden a little be- 
fore the appointed time. I had procured 
a key to the little gate ; and I tried to 
openit. Unfortunately, I could not make 


124 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


it turn, the lock was so rusty. I exerted all ! 
my strength in vain. I was in despair, 
when nine o’clock sounded. At the third 
stroke, Albert knocked. I told him of the 
accident ; and I threw him the key, that 
he might try and unlock the door. He 
tried in vain. I then begged him to post- 
pone our interview until the next day. He 
replied that it was impossible, that what 
he had to say admitted of no delay ; that, 
during the three days that he had hesitated 
about confiding in me, he had suffered 
martyrdom, and that he could endure 
it no longer. We were speaking, you un- 
derstand, through the gate. At last, he 
declared that lie would climb over the 
wall. I begged him not to do it, fearing 
an accident. It was very high, you see ; 
and the top was set with pieces of broken 
glass, and the acacia branches stretched 
above like a hedge. But he laughed at my 
fears, and said that, unless I made a 
vigorous resistance, he was going to scale 
the wall. I dared not say any thing ; and 
he risked it. Fortunately, he was very ac- 
tive, and got over without injury. He had 
come, monsieur, to tell me of the misfor- 
tune which had befallen him. We were 
now seated upon the little bank, you know, 
opposite the grove ; then, when the rain 
fell, we took refuge in the summer house. 
It was after midnight when Albert left me, 
quiet and happy. He went back in the 
same manner, only with less danger ; be- 
cause I forced him to use the gardener’s 
ladder, which I laid beside the wall when 
he was on the other side.” 

t This account, given in the simplest, most 
natural manner, puzzled Daburon. What 
was he to think? 

“Mademoiselle,” he asked, “had the 
rain commenced when Albert climbed over 
the wall ? ” 

“No, monsieur; the first drops fell 
when we were on the bank. I recol- 
lect it very well, because he opened his 
umbrella ; and I thought of Paul and Vir- 
ginia.” 

“ Allow me one moment, mademoiselle,'” 
said the judge. 

lie sat down at his desk, and rapidly 
wrote two letters. In the first, he gave 
orders for Albert’s presence in his office in 
the palais de justice. 

In the second, he ordered a detective to 
go immediately to the Faubourg St. Ger- 
main to the d’Arlangcs house, and exam- 
ine the wall at the bottom of the garden, 
and notice any marks of its having been 
scaled, if any such existed. He explained 
that the wall had been climbed twice, be- 
fore and after the rain ; consequently the 


marks of the going and coming would bo 
different from each other. 

He enjoined upon this agent to proceed 
with the utmost caution, and to discover a 
plausible pretext which would explain his 
investigations. 

Having finished writing, the judge rang 
for his servant, who appeared. 

“ Here,” said he, “ are two letters, which 
you will take to my clerk, Constant. Tell 
him to read them, and to have the orders 
they contain executed at once, — at once, 
you understand. Run, take a carriage, 
any thing, but go quickly 1 Ah 1 one word. 
If Constant is not in my office, have him 
sought for : he will not be a great way off, 
as he is waiting for me. Go quick ! ” 

Daburon then turned to Claire. 

“ Have you kept the letter, mademoiselle, 
in which Albert asked for this interview ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, I ought to have it with 
me.” 

She arose, felt in her pocket, and drew 
out a much rumpled piece of paper. 

“ Here it is ! ” 

The judge of inquiry took it. A sus- 

f ficion crossed him. This compromising 
etter was quite conveniently in Claire’s 
pocket ; and yet young girls do not usually 
thus expose requests for interviews. At a 
glance, he ran' over the ten lines of the 
note. 

“ No date,” he muttered, “ no stamp, — 
nothing at all.” 

Claire did not hear him ; she was rack- 
ing her brain to find proofs of the. inter 
view. 

“ Monsieur,” said she suddenly, “ it often 
happens, that, when we wish to be, and 
believe ourselves alone, we are nevertheless 
observed. Summon, I beseech you, all of my 
grandmamma’s servants, and inquire if any 
of them saw Albert that night.” 

“ Inquire of your servants 1 Are you 
not dreaming, mademoiselle ? ” 

“What, monsieur? You fear that I 
shall be compromised. What of that, if 
he is only freed ? ” 

Daburon could not help admiring her. 
What sublime devotion in this young 
girl, whether she spoke the truth or not! 
He could understand her violence of an 
hour ago, now that he knew her character 
so well. 

“ That is not all, ” she added ; “ the key 
to the little gate which I threw to Albert : 
He did not return it to me ; he must have 
forgotten it. If they find it in his possession, 
that will well prove that he was in the gar- 
den.” 

“ I will give the orders, mademoiselle.” 
“ There is still another means,” con- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


125 


tinned Claire ; “ while I am here, send to 
examine the wall.” 

She seemed to think of every thing. 

“ That is already done, mademoiselle,” 
replied Daburon. “ I will not hide from 
you, that one of the letters which I have 
just sent off ordered an examination of 
your grandmother’s house, — a very quiet 
examination, though, be assured.” 

Claire rose joyfully, and for the second 
time held out her hand to the judge. 

“ Oh, thanks ! ” said she, “ a thousand 
thanks ! Now I am sure that you are with 
me. But I have still another idea : Albert 
ought to have the note I wrote on Tues- 
day.” 

“ No, mademoiselle, he has burned it.” 

Claire’s eyes drooped ; she drew back. 

She imagined a touch of irony in the 
judge’s reply. There was none, however. 
The magistrate remembered the letter 
thrown into the fire by Albert on Tuesday 
afternoon. It could be none other than 
this of Claire’s. It was to her, then, that 
the words, “ She cannot resist me,” applied. 
He understood, now, the action and the re- 
mark. 

“ Do you know, mademoiselle,” he pur- 
sued, “ that M. de Commarm has led jus- 
tice astray, and has exposed me to a most 
deplorable error, when it would have been 
so easy to have told me all this ? ” 

“ It seems to me, monsieur, that an hon- 
est man could not confess that he had ob- 
tained an interview with a lady, until he 
had obtained full permission from her own 
lips. He ought to risk his life sooner than 
the honor of her who has trusted in him ; but 
be assured Albert had confidence in me.” 

He had nothing to reply to this ; for the 
sentiments expressed by Mademoiselle 
d’Arlanges gave a meaning to some of 
Albert’s replies in the examination. 

“ This is not all yet, mademoiselle,” con- 
tinued the judge ; “ all that you have told 
me here, you must repeat in my office, at 
the palais de justice. My clerk must take 
down your testimony ; and you must sign 
it. This proceeding will be painful ; but 
it is a necessary formality.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, I will do it with pleas- 
ure. What can I refuse, when I know that 
he is in prison ? I am determined to do 
every thing. If I am needed at the court 
of assize, f will go, — yes, I will be present ; 
and, above all and before all, I will speak 
the truth. Doubtless,” she added sadly, 
“I shall bo much exposed : I shall be 
looked upon as a heroine of romance ; but 
what matters public opinion, the blame or 
approval of the world, since I am sure of 
his love ? ” 


She arose, readjusting her cloak and the 
strings of her hat. 

“ Must I,” she asked, “ await the return 
of those who are examining the wall ? ” 

“ It is not at all necessary, mademoiselle.” 

“ Then,” she continued in a sweet voice, 
“ I can only beseech you” (she clasped her 
hands), “ conjure you” (her eyes implored), 
“ to let Albert out ot prison.” 

“ He shall be liberated as soon as possi- 
ble ; I give you my word.” 

“Oh, to-day, dear Monsieur Daburon, 
to-day, I beg of you, — now, this moment ! 
Since he is innocent, be kind, since you 
are our friend. Do you wish me to go 
down on my knees ? ” 

The judge had only time to extend his 
arms, and prevent her. 

He was choking with emotion, unhappy 
man ! 

Ah 1 how much he envied the prisoner’s 
lot! 

“ That which you ask of me is impossible, 
mademoiselle,” said he tenderly, “ imprac- 
ticable, upon my honor. Ah ! if it de- 
pended upon me alone, I should not be 
able, even were he guilty, to see you weep, 
and to resist.” 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges, so firm up to 
this time, could no longer restrain her sobs. 

“ Unhappy man ! ” she cried, “ he is suf- 
fering; he is in prison. I am free; and 
yet I can do nothing for him. Great 
heaven ! inspire me with accents to touch 
the heart of men ! At their feet I will 
cast myself for pardon.” 

She suddenly stopped, surprised at hav- 
ing uttered such a word. 

“ Pardon ! ” she repeated fiercely ; “he has 
no need of pardon. Why am I only a 
woman ? Can I not find one man who will 
aid me ? Yes,” she said after a moment’s 
reflection, “ there is one man who owes 
himself to Albert ; since he it was who put 
him in this position, — the Count do Com- 
marin. He is his father, and has yet 
abandoned him. Ah, well ! I will remind 
him that he has a son still.” 

The magistrate arose to see her to the 
door; but she had already disappeared, 
taking with her the good Schmidt. 

Daburon, more dead than alive, sank 
back in his chair. His eyes filled with 
tears. 

“ What a noble woman she is ! ” he mur- 
mured. “ Ah ! I made no vulgar choice. 
I had divined and understood all theso 
good qualities.” 

He had never loved her so much; and 
he felt that he should never be consoled for 
not having won her love in return. But, 
in the midst of his meditations, a sudden 


126 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


thought passed like a flash across his brain. 

Had Claire spoken the truth ? Had she 
not been playing a role, assumed to deceive 
him ? No, surely no 1 

But she might have been deceived, — 
might have been the dupe of some skilful 
trick. 

Pere Tabaret’s prediction was now 
realized. 

Tabaret had said, “ Look out for an 
unobjectionable alibi.” 

How could he show the falsity of this 
one, planned in advance, affirmed by 
Claire, who was herself deceived ? 

How could he foil a plan, so well laid 
that the prisoner was able without danger 
to await certain results, with his hands 
bound, and without himself moving in the 
matter ? 

And yet, if Claire’s story were true, and 
Albert innocent. 

The judge struggled in the midst of in- 
extricable difficulties, without a plan, with- 
out an idea. 

He arose. 

“Oh 1 ” he said in a loud voice, as though 
encouraging himself, “ at the palais, all 
will be unravelled.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Daburon had been surprised at Claire’s 
visit. 

M. de Commarin was still more so, when 
his valet de chambre whispered to him that 
Mademoiselle d’Arlanges asked a moment’s 
conversation with him. 

Daburon had let a handsome card-plate 
fall; M. de Commarin, who was at break- 
fast, let his knife fall. 

Like the judge he exclaimed, — 

“ Claire ! ” 

He hesitated to receive her, fearing a 
painiul and disagreeable scene. 

She had had, lie knew, very slight affec- 
tion for him, who had for so long repulsed 
her with such obstinacy. What could 
she want with him ? To inquire about Al- 
bert, of course. And what could he reply ? 

She would probably have some nervous 
attack or other ; and her system, as well 
as his, would be disturbed. 

However, he thought ‘of the great grief 
she must have experienced ; and he pitied 
her. 

lie reflected, that it would be cruel, as 
well as unworthy his character, to keep 
himself from her who was to have been his 
daught 3r, — the Viscountess de Commarin. 


He sent a message, asking her to wait 
one instant in the little salon on the ground 
floor. 

He did not keep her long, his appe- 
tite having been destroyed by the an- 
nouncement of her presence. He was 
prepared for any thing disagreeable. 

When he entered, Claire bowed to him 
with one of those graceful, yet highly dig- 
nified bends, which distinguished the Mar- 
quise d’Arlanges. 

“ Monsieur,” she began — 

“ You come, do you not, my poor child, 
to obtain news of the unhappy boy ? ” 
asked M. de Commarin. 

He had interrupted Claire, wishing to go 
straight to the point, in order to get it the 
more quickly over. 

“ No, monsieur,” replied the young girl ; 
“ I come, on the contrary, to bring you 
news. Albert is innocent.” 

The count looked at her most attentive- 
ly, persuaded that grief had affected her 
reason ; but her madness in this instance 
was very quiet. 

“ I have never doubted it,” continued 
Claire ; “ but now I have the most positive 
proofs.” 

“ Do you feel sure of what you have ad- 
vanced ? ” inquired the count, whose eyes 
betrayed his doubt. 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges understood his 
thoughts ; her interview with Daburon had 
given her experience. 

“ I advance nothing which is not of the 
utmost accuracy,” she replied, “ and easily 
proved. I have just come from the judge 
of inquiry, Monsieur Daburon, who is one 
of my grandmamma’s friends ; and, after 
what I have told him, he is persuaded that 
Albert is innocent.” 

“ He told you that, Claire ! ” exclaimed 
the count. “ My child, are you sure, are you 
not deceiving yourself?” 

“ No, monsieur. I told him something* 
of which the world is ignorant, and of 
which Albert, who is a gentleman, could 
not speak ; I told him that Albert passed 
with me, in my grandmamma’s garden, all 
that evening when the crime was commit- 
ted. He had asked an interview of 
me — ” 

“ But your word will not be sufficient.” 

“ There are proofs of it, which Justice has 
by this time.” 

“ Heavens 1 Is it really possible ? ” 
cried the count, who was beside himself. 

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” said Mademoiselle 
d’Arlanges bitterly, “ you are like the 
judge ; you thought it impossible. You are 
his father, and suspected him. You could 
not have known him, then. You aban- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


127 


doned him, without trying to defend him. 
Ah, I never doubted him ! ” 

We can easily be induced to believe true 
what we are anxiously longing for. M. de 
Commarin was not difficult to convince. 
Without reasons, without discussion, he put 
faith in Claire’s assertions. He shared her 
convictions, without asking whether they 
were wise or prudent. 

Yes, he had been overcome by the posi- 
tiveness of the judge : he had acknowl- 
edged the improbability of his son’s inno- 
cence ; and he had bowed his head. .One 
word from this young girl restored him. 
Albert innocent V This thought descended 
upon his heart like dew from heaven. 

Claire appeared to him a messenger 
bringing sunshine and hope. 

During the last three days, he had dis- 
covered how great his affection for Albert 
was. He had loved him tenderly ; for he 
had never been able to discard him, in 
spite of his frightful suspicions about his 
paternity. 

For three days, the remembrance of the 
crime imputed to the unhappy boy, the 
thought of the punishment which awaited 
him, had nearly killed him ; and now he 
was innocent 1 

No more shame, no more scandal, no 
more stains upon the escutcheon ; the 
name of Commarin would no longer re- 
sound before the tribunals. 

“ But now, mademoiselle,” demanded 
the count, “ are they going to release 
him?” 

“ Alas ! monsieur, I demanded that they 
should at once place him at liberty. It is 
just, is it not? since he is not guilty? 
feut the judge only replied that it was not 
possible ; that he was not the master ; that 
Albert’s fate depended on many others. 
It was then that I resolved to come to you 
for aid.” 

“ Is there any thing in my power ? ” 

“I at least hope so. I am only a poor 
girl, very ignorant ; and I know no one in 
the world. I do not know what can be done 
in behalf of a man unjustly detained in pris- 
on. There ought, however, to be some 
means for obtaining justice fdfc them. Will 
you not try what can be done, monsieur, 
you, who are his father ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied M. de Commarin quickly, 
“ yes, and without a moment’s loss.” 

Since Albert’s arrest, the count had been 
plunged in a dull stupor. In his profound 
grief seeing about him only ruin and dis- 
aster, he had done nothing to shake off this 
mental paralysis. Ordinarily very active, 
he sat all day now without moving. He 
congratulated himself that his condition pre- 

O 


vented his feeling the immensity of hik 
misfortune. Claire’s voice sounded in his 
ear like the resurrection trumpet. The 
frightful darkness was dispelled ; he saw a 
glimmering in the horizon; he recovered 
the energy of his youth. 

“ Let us go,” he said. 

But suddenly the radiance in his face 
changed to sadness, mixed with anger. 

“ But yet,” he said, “ where ? At what 
door shall we knock with any hope of suc- 
cess ? In the olden times, I should seek the 
king; but to-day the emperor will not in- 
terfere with the law. He will tell me to 
await the decision of the tribunals, that he 
can do nothing. Wait. And Albert is 
counting the minutes in mortal agony ! 
We shall certainly obtain justice ; but to 
do it promptly is an art taught in schools 
that I have not frequented.” 

“ Let us try, at least, monsieur,” per- 
sisted Claire. “ Let us seek out judges, 
generals, ministers. Only lead me to 
them. I will speak ; and you shall see if 
we do not succeed.” 

The count took Claire’s little hands be- 
tween his own, and held them a moment 
pressing them with paternal tenderness. 

“ Brave girl 1 ” he cried ; “ you are a 
noble, courageous woman, Claire. Good 
blood never fails. I should not have 
known you. Yes, you shall be my daugh- 
ter ; and you shall be happy together, — 
Albert and you. But we mustn’t rush 
about everywhere, like wild geese. We 
need some one to point out whom we should 
address, — some guide, advocate, notary. 
Ah ! ” he cried, “ I have it, — Noel.” 

Claire raised her eyes to the count’s in 
surprise. 

“ He is my son,” replied M. de Com- 
marin, evidently embarrassed, — “ my 
other son, Albert’s brother, — the best and 
worthiest of men,” he added, repeating 
quite appropriately a phrase already used 
by Daburon. “ He is an advocate ; he 
knows all about the palais ; he will guide 
us.” 

Noel’s name, thus thrown into the midst 
of this conversation so full of hope, op- 
pressed Claire’s heart. 

The count perceived her affright. 

“ Don’t feel anxious, dear child,” he said. 
“ Noel is good ; and I will tell you more, 
loves Albert. Do not shake your head so ; 
Noel told me himself, on this very spot, 
that he did not believe Albert guilty. He 
declared that he intended doing every 
thing to dispel the fatal mistake, and that 
he would be his advocate.” 

These assertions did not seem to reas- 
sure the young girl. She said to herself, 


128 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ What Las this Noel accomplished for Al- 
bert ? ” She could think of nothing. 

“ I will send for him,” said M. de Com- 
marin ; “he is now with Albert’s mother, 
who brought him up, and who is now on 
her death-bed.” 

“ Albert’s mother ? ” 

“ Yes, my child. Albert will explain to 
you what may perhaps seem to you an 
enigma. Now timo presses. But I 
think — ” 

He stopped suddenly. He thought, 
that, instead of sending tor Noel at Madame 
Gerdy’s, he might go there himself. He 
should thus see Valerie! and he had 
longed to see her again so much ! 

It was one of those actions which the 
heart urges, but which we do not dare 
risk ; because a thousand subtle reasons 
and interests are against it. 

We wish, we desire, we long for it ; and 
yet we struggle, combat, resist. But, if an 
opportunity occurs, we are only too happy 
to seize it ; then we have, at least, one ex- 
cuse to silence our conscience. 

In thus yielding every thing to the im- 
pulse of our feelings, we can say, “ It was 
not I who wished it ; it was fate.” 

“It will be better, perhaps,” observed 
the count, “ to go to Noel. ’ 

“ Let us start then, monsieur.” 

“ I hardly know, my child,” said the old 
gentleman hesitating, “ whether I may, 
whether I ought, to take you with me. 
Propriety — ” 

“ Ah, monsieur, why talk of propriety ? ” 
replied Claire impetuously. “With you, 
and for his sake, I can go anywhere. Is it 
not indispensable that I should give the 
circumstances ? Only send word to my 
grandmamma by Schmidt, who will come 
back here and await my return. I am 
ready, monsieur.” 

“ Well,” said the count. 

Then, ringing so violently that he broke 
the bell cord, he cried, “ My carriage ! ” 

In descending the stairway, lie insisted 
upon Claire’s taking his arm. The gallant 
and elegant politeness of the Count d’ Artois 
reappeared. 

“ You have taken off twenty years from 
my age,” he said ; “it is fit that I should 
do homage for the youth you have given 
me.” 

When Claire had entered the carriage, 
“ Rue St. Lazare,” lie said to the footman, 
“ quick ! ” 

Whenever the count said, on entering 
his carriage, “ quick,” the foot-passengers 
had to get out of the way. But. the coach- 
man was a skilful driver; and they ar- 
rived without accident. 


Aided by the directions of the porter, 
the count and the young girl went towards 
Madame Gerdy’s apartment. The count 
mounted slowly, holding tightly to the 
railing, stopping at each landing to breathe. 
He was, then, to see her again. This emo- 
tion pressed his heart like a vise. 

“ Noel Gcrdy ? ” he asked of the maid. 

The advocate had just that moment gone 
out. She did not know where he had 
gone ; but he had said he should not be out 
more than half an hour. 

“ We will wait for him, then,” said the 
count. 

He advanced ; and the maid drew back 
to let them pass. Noel had, in so many 
words, forbidden her to admit any visitors ; 
butthe Count de Commarin was one of those 
whose appearance makes servants forget 
all their orders. 

Three persons were in the room when 
the maid introduced the Count and Made- 
moiselle d’Arlanges. 

There was the parish priest, the doctor, 
and a tall man, an officer of the legi'dn of 
honor, whose carriage and figure indicated 
the veteran. 

They were conversing near the mantel; 
and the arrival of strangers appeared to 
astonish them. 

In bowing, in response to M. de Com- 
marin’s and Claire’s salute, they seemed to 
inquire their business ; but the hesitation 
was brief: the soldier offered Mademoi- 
selle d’Arlanges a chair. 

The count saw that his presence was in- 
opportune ; and he felt called upon to 
introduce himself, and explain his visit. 

“ You will excuse me, messieurs,” said 
he, “ if I am inconsiderate. I need not tell 
you, that, in asking permission to await 
Noel, I have the most pressing need of see- 
ing him. I am the Count de Commarin.” 

At this name, the old soldier left the 
chair whose back he still held, and assumed 
all the haughtiness of his profession. An 
angry light flashed in his eyes ; and he 
made a threatening gesture. His lips 
moved, as if he were about to speak ; but 
he restrained himself, and retired, his head 
bowed, to the window. 

Neither the count nor the others re- 
marked these various movements ; but they 
did not escape Claire. 

While Mademoiselle d’Arlanges sat 
down, confused, the count, also much em- 
barrassed at his position, approached the 
priest, and in a low voice asked, — 

“ What is, I beseech you, Monsieur 
l’Abbe, Madame Gerdy’s condition ? ” 

The doctor, who had a sharp car, heard 
the question, and approached quickly. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


129 


It was very pleasant to speak to a per- 
sonage as celebrated as the Count de 
Commarin, and to become acquainted with 
him. 

“ I fear, monsieur,” he said, “ that she 
cannot live another day.” 

The count pressed his hand against his 
forehead, as though he had felt a sudden 
pain. He hesitated to inquire further. 

After a moment of chilling silence, he re- 
solved to go on. 

“ Does she recognize her friends ? ” he 
murmured. 

“ No, monsieur. Since last evening, 
however, there has been a great change. 
She was very uneasy all last night : 
she had moments of fierce delirium. 
About an hour ago, we thought she was 
recovering her senses ; and we sent for the 
priest.” 

“ Very useless, though,” putin the priest ; 
“ it is a sad misfortune. Her reason is 
quite gone, poor woman ! I have known 
her ten years. I have seen her nearly every 
week ; and I never knew a more excellent 
woman.” 

“ She must suffer dreadfully,” said the 
doctor. 

Almost on the instant, and as if to bear 
out the doctor’s words, they heard stifled 
cries from the next room, the door of which 
was open. 

“ Did you hear ? ” exclaimed the count, 
trembling from head to foot. 

Claire understood nothing of this strange 
scene. Dark presentiments oppressed her ; 
she felt as though she were enveloped by 
an atmosphere of evil. She grew fright- 
ened, and drew near the count. 

“ Is she really there ? ” asked M. de 
Commarin. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” harshly answered the 
old soldier who had come near, “ she is.” 

At another time, the count would have no- 
ticed the soldier’s tone, and have resented it. 
Now, he did not even raise his eyes. He 
remained insensible to every thing. Was 
she not there, two steps from him ? His 
thoughts were in the past ; it seemed to 
him but yesterday that he had quitted her 
for the last time. 

“ I should much like to see her,” he said 
timidly. 

“ That is impossible,” replied the old 
soldier. 

“ Why ? ” stammered the count. 

“ At least, Monsieur de Commarin,” re- 
plied the soldier, “ let her die in peace.” 

The count started, as if he had been 
struck. His eyos encountered those of the 
veteran’s ; they fell like a criminal’s before 
his judge. 


“ Nothing need prevent monsieur’s en- 
tering Madame Gerdy’s room,” put in the 
doctor, who purposely saw nothing of all 
this. “ She would probably not notice his 
presence ; and if — ” 

“ Oh, she would perceive nothing ! ” said 
the priest. “ I have just spoken to her, 
taken her hand : she is still insensible.” 

The old soldier reflected deeply. 

“ Enter,” said he at last to the count ; 
“ perhaps it is God’s will.” 

The count tottered, so that the doctor 
sprang forward to assist him. He gently 
pushed him away. 

The doctor and the priest entered with 
him ; Claire and the olcF soldier remained 
at the threshold of the door, opposite the 
bed. 

The count took three or four steps, and 
was obliged to stop. He wished, but could 
not go further. 

Could this dying woman really be Va- 
lerie ? 

He had to tax his memory severely : 
nothing in those withered features, nothing 
in that troubled face, recalled the beautiful, 
the adored Valerie of his youth. He did 
not even know her. 

But she knew him, or rather divined, 
felt his presence. Moved by a supernatu- 
ral force, she raised herself, exposing her 
shoulders and emaciated arms. With a 
violent gesture, she pushed away the ice 
from her forehfead, throwing back her still 
plentiful hair, bathed with perspiration, 
which fell upon the pillow. 

“ Guy ! ” she cried. “ Guy'! ” 

The count trembled all over. 

He stood more immovable than those 
unhappy people, who, according to popular 
belief, when struck by lightning remain 
standing, but crumble into dust if touched. 

He did not perceive that which imme- 
diately struck all others present, — the 
transformation in the sick woman. Her 
contracted features relaxed : a celestial joy 
spread over her face ; and her eyes, hollowed 
by disease, assumed an expression of infi- 
nite tenderness. 

“ Guy,” said she in a voice heart-break- 
ing by its sweetness, “ you have come at 
last 1 How long, O my God ! I have wait- 
ed for you ! You cannot think what I 
have suffered in your absence. I was dy-t 
ing of grief, without one hope of seeing 
you again. They have kept you from me. 
Who, who was it ? Your relations still ? 
Cruel, cruel 1 Did you not tell them that 
no one could love you here below as I did ? 
No ; that was not it. I, I forget. I, — 
were you not angry when you left me ? 
Your friends wished to separate us ; they 


o 


130 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


said that I drew you away from her. Who 
have I injured that I should have so many 
enemies ? They envied my happiness ; 
and we were so happy ! But you did not be- 
lieve the wicked calumny : you scorned it ; 
for are you not here ? ” 

The nun, who had risen on seeing so 
many enter the sick room, now opened her 
eyes with astonishment. 

“ I betray you ? ” continued the dying 
woman, apparently wild at the thought. 
“ Was I not yours, your own, heart and 
soul ? To me you were every thing ; and 
there was nothing I could expect or hope 
from another which you had not already 
given me. Was I not yours, body and 
soul, from the first? I never hesitated to 
give tnyself entirely to you ; I felt that I 
was born for you. Guy, can you forget 
that ? I was working for a lace-maker, 
and was barely earning a living. You told 
me that you were a poor student ; and I 
felt that you were depriving yourself for 
my sake. You wished to fit up our little 
cottage at St. Michael. "It was lovely, 
with its fresh paper all covered with flow- 
ers, which we ourselves hung. How de- 
lightful it was ! From the window, there 
was a view of the great trees at the Tuil- 
eries ; and, by a little imagination, we could 
see the setting sun through the arches of 
the bridge. Oh, those happy times ! The 
first time that we walked out into the 
country together, one Sunday, you brought 
me a more beautiful dress than I had ever 
dreamed of, and boots so tiny that' it was a 
shame to walk in them. But you had de- 
ceived me ; you were not a poor student. 
One day, in taking my work home, I met 
you in an elegant carriage, behind which 
rode tall footmen in a livery covered with 
gold. I could not believe my eyes. That 
evening you told me the truth, that you were 
a noble of great wealth. O my darling ! 
why did you tell me?”' 

Had she her reason, or was this delirium 
which was speaking ? 

Great tears rolled down the wrinkled 
face of the Count de Commarin ; and the 
doctor and priest wondered at this sad 
spectacle of an old man weeping like a 
child. 

Last evening only, the count had thought 
his heart dead ; and now this voice, sinking 
into his heart, was sufficient to recall the 
fresh, powerful feelings of his youth. How 
many years had passed away since 1 

“ Then,” continued Madame Gerdy, “ we 
left St. Michael. You wished it ; and I 
obeyed, in spite of my apprehensions. 
You told me, that, to please you, I must re- 
semble the great ladies. You provided 


teachers for me ; foi I had been so ignorant 
that I scarcely knew how to sign my 
name. Do you remember the queer spell- 
ing in my first letter? Ah, Guy, if you 
had only been really a poor student ! 
When I knew that you were so rich, I lost 
my simplicity, my thoughtlessness, my 
gaiety. I feared that you would think me 
covetous, — that you would imagine that 
your fortune influenced my love. Men, 
who, like you, have millions, must be very 
unhappy. They must be always doubting 
and full of suspicions ; they can never be 
sure whether it is themselves or their gold 
which is loved : and this makes them defi- 
ant, jealous, cruel. Oh, my dearest ! why did 
we leave our little cottage ? There we were 
happy. Why did you not leave me always 
where you had found me? Did you not 
know that the sight of happiness irritates 
mankind? If we had been wise, we 
should have hid our happiness like a crime. 
You thought to raise me; you only sunk 
me lower. You were proud of our love ; 
you published it abroad. Vainly I asked you 
in mercy to leave me in obscurity, and un- 
known. Soon the whole town knew that I 
was your mistress. It was reported, in your 
own circles, that you were ruining yourself 
for me. How I blushed at the flaunting 
luxury you thrust upon me ! You were 
satisfied, because my beauty became cele- 
brated ; I wept because my shame became 
so, too. They talked about me, as 
about women who make their lovers 
commit the greatest follies. Was not my 
name in the papers ? And it was through 
the same papers that I learned of your ap- 
proaching marriage. Unhappy woman ! 

I should have fled from you ; but I had not 
the courage. I resigned myself, without 
an effort, to the most humiliating, the most 
shameful of lots. You were married ; and I 
continued your mistress. Oh, what anguish 
I suffered during that terrible evening I I 
was alone in my own house, in that room 
so associated with you ; and you were mar- 
rying another. I said to myself, ‘ At this 
moment, a pure, noble young girl is giving 
herself to him.’ I said again, ‘ What oaths 
is that mouth, which has so often pressed 
my lips, now taking ? ’ Often since that 
dreadful misfortune, I have asked the good 
God what crime I had committed that I 
should be so terribly punished ? This was 
the crime. I continued your mistress, and 
your wife died. I had only seen her once, 
and then scarcely for a moment ; but she 
looked at you ; and I knew that she loved 
as only I could. And, Guy, it was our 
love that killed her ! ” 

She stopped exhausted : but none of the 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


131 


bystanders moved. They listened breath- 
lessly, and -waited with feverish emotion for 
her to resume. 

Mademoiselle d’ Arlanges had not strength 
to remain standing; she fell upon her 
knees, and pressed her handkerchief to her 
mouth to keep back her sobs. Was not 
this Albert’s mother? 

The worthy sister was alone unmoved ; 
she had seen, she said to herself, many such 
deliriums before. She understood abso- 
lutely nothing of the scene. 

“These people are very foolish,” she 
thought, “ to pay so much attention to the 
ramblings of insanity.” 

She thought she had more sense than 
the others. Approaching the bed, she be- 
gan to cover the sick woman. 

“ Come, madame,” said she, “ cover your- 
self, or you will catch cold.” 

“ Sister ! ” remonstrated the doctor and 
the priest at the same moment. 

“Jupiter Ammon 1 ” cried the soldier, 
“ let her speak.” 

“ Who,” cofitinued the sick woman, un- 
conscious of all that was passing about 
her, — “ who can tell what I have endured ? 
Oh, the wretches ! They set spies upon 
me ; they discovered that an officer came 
frequently to see me. That officer was my 
brother, my dear Louis. When he was 
eighteen years old, getting no work, he en- 
listed, saying to mother, that there would 
now be one mouth less in the family. He, 
was a good soldier ; and the officers always 
liked him. He joined his regiment : he 
taught himself ; and he gradually rose in 
rank. He was promoted to lieutenant, cap- 
tain, and finally became major. Louis always 
loved me ; but I seldom saw him. He was 
a non-commissioned officer when he first 
knew that I had a lover ; and he was so en- 
raged that I feared he would never forgive 
me. But he did forgive me, saying that 
my constancy in my wrong was its only ex- 
cuse. Ah, my friend, he was more jealous 
of your honor than you yourself! He came 
to see me in secret, because I had placed 
him in the unhappy position of blushing 
.for his sister. My name never passed his 
lips. Could a brave soldier confess that 
his sister was the mistress of a count? 
That it might not be known, I took the ut- 
most precautions, but alas ! only to make 
you doubt me. When Louis knew what 
was said, he wished, in his blind rage, to 
challenge you ; and then I was obliged to 
prove to him that he had no right to defend 
me. What misery ! Ah, I have paid dearly 
for my years of stolen happiness ! But you 
are here ; and all is forgotten ; for you do 
believe me, do you not, Guy ? I will call 


Louis. He will come : he will tell you that 
I do. not lie ; and you cannot doubt his, a 
j soldier’s word.” 

. “ Yes, on my honor,” spoke the old sol- 
dier, “ what my sister says is the truth.” 

The dying woman did not hear him ; she. 
continued in a voice panting with weari- 
ness, — 

“ How your presence revives me ! I feel 
that I am growing stronger. I have been 
sick. I do not deserve to be happy to-day ; 
but embrace me ! ” 

She held out her hands, and raised her 
lips as if to kiss him. 

“ But it is on one condition, Guy, that 
you will leave me my child. Oh! I beg 
you, I entreat you not to take him from 
me ; leave him to me. What is a mother 
without her son ? You are anxious to give 
him an illustrious name, an immense for- 
tune. No. You tell me that this sacrifice 
will be for his good* No. My child is mine ; 

I will protect him. The world has no hon- 
ors, no riches, which can replace a mother’s 
care beside the cradle. You wish, by the 
exchange, to give me another’s child. 
Never ! What, shall that woman embrace 
my boy ? No, no. Take away this 
strange child from me ; it fills me with hor- 
ror. I want my own Noel ! Ah, do not 
insist, do not threaten me with your anger ! 
Don’t leave me. I yield, and then I will 
die. Guy, give up this fatal purpose ; the 
thought alone is crime. Cannot my pray- 
ers, my tears, can nothing move you ? Ah, 
well, God will punish us in our old age. 
All will be discovered. The day will come 
when these children will demand a fearful 
reckoning. Guy, I foresee the future; I 
see my son coming to me, justly angered. 
What does he say ? Great heaven ! Oh, 
those letters, those letters, sweet memories 
of our love ! My son, he threatens me ! 
He strikes me ! Ah, help ! A son strike 
his mother ! Tell no one of it : don’t let it 
ever be known. God, what torture ! He 
knows well that I am his mother. He pre- 
tends not to believe me. This is too much ! 
Guy, pardon, oh, my dearest ! I had not 
power to resist, nor the courage to obey 
you.” 

At this moment the door leading to the 
stairway opened, and Noel appeared, pale 
as usual, but calm and composed. 

The dying woman saw him ; and it 
affected her like an electric shock. 

A terrible trembling shook her whole 
body ; her eyes grew inordinately large ; 
her hair seemed to stand on end. She 
raised herself on her elbows, pointed at 
Noel, and in a loud voice exclaimed, — 

“ Assassin 1 ” 


132 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Convulsively she fell back on the bed. 
They hastened forward : she was dead. 

A deep silence prevailed. 

Such is the majesty of death, and the 
terror which accompanies it, that, before it, 
even the strongest and most skeptical bow 
their heads. 

For an instant, passions and interests 
are forgotten. Involuntarily we are drawn 
together, when some mutual friend breathes 
his last in our presence. 

All the bystanders were deeply moved 
by this painful scene, this last confession, 
wrested from a delirious and unhappy 
woman. 

But the last word uttered by Madame 
Gerdy, “ Assassin ! ” surprised no one. 

All, with the exception of the nun, knew 
of the unhappy accusation which had been 
made against Albert. 

To him they applied the malediction of 
the unfortunate mother. 

Noel appeared to totter. Kneeling near 
the bedside of her who had been as a 
mother to him, he took one of her hands, 
and pressed it close to his lips. 

“ Dead 1 ” he groaned ; “ she is dead ! ” 

By his side, the nun and the priest knelt, 
and repeated in a low voice the prayers for 
the dead. 

They implored God to shed his peace 
and mercy on this departed soul. 

They begged for a little happiness in 
heaven for her who had suffered so much 
on this earth. 

Falling into a chair, his head back, the 
Count de Commarin was more over- 
whelmed, more livid, than this dead woman, 
his old love, once so beautiful. 

Claire and the doctor pressed toward 
him. 

They undid his cravat, and opened the 
collar of his shirt, or he would have suffo- 
cated. 

With the help of the old soldier, whose 
red, tearful eye told of suppressed grief, 
they moved the count’s chair to the half- 
opened window for a little air. Three days 
before, this scene would have killed him. 

But the heart grows hardened by misfor- 
tune, as hands by labor. 

“ Tears would relieve him,” whispered 
the doctor to Claire. 

M. de Commarin gradually recovered, 
and, with clearness of thought, returned 
the intensity of suffering. 

The prostration was followed by great 
struggles in his mind. Nature seemed 
striving to sustain the misfortune. We 
never feel the entire shock at once ; it is 
only afterwards that we realize the extent 
and profundity of any misfortune. 


The count’s gaze was fixed upon the bed 
where lay Valerie’s body. There, then, 
was all that remained of her. The soul 
— that soul, so devoted, so tender — had 
flown. 

What would he not give if God would 
but return that unfortunate woman for a day, 
for only an hour of life and reason ? With 
what transports of repentance would he 
cast himself at her feet, to implore par- 
don, to tell her how much horror he had for 
his past conduct. How he had misunder- 
stood the inexhaustible love of that angel ! 
Upon a suspicion, without deigning to in- 
quire, without hearing her, he had crushed 
her with his cold contempt. Why had he 
not investigated the matter? He would 
have spared himself twenty years of doubt 
as to Albert’s birth. Instead of an isola- 
ted existence, he would have had a happy, 
joyous life. 

Then he recalled the death of the count- 
ess. She also had loved, even to her 
death. 

He had not understood them; he had 
killed them both. 

The hour of expiation had come ; and 
he could not say “ Lord, the punishment is 
too great.” 

And yet, what punishment, what wretch- 
edness, during the last five days 1 

“ Yes,” he stammered, “ she predicted 
it. Why did I not listen to her ? ” 

Madame Gerdy’s brother pitied the old 
man, so severely tried. He held out his 
hand. 

“ Monsieur de Commarin,” he said, in a 
grave, sad voice, “ my sister pardoned you 
long ago, even if she ever had an ill feeling 
against you. It is my turn to-day ; I for- 
give you sincerely.” 

“ Thanks, monsieur,” murmured the 
count, — “ thanks ! ” and then added 
“ dead 1 ’ 

“Yes,” said Claire, “ she breathed her 
last in the idea that her son was guilty. 
And you did not undeceive her.” 

“ At least her son,” cried the count, 
“ should be free to render her his last du- 
ties ; yes, he must be. Noel ! ” 

The advocate had drawn near his father, 
and had heard all. 

“ I have promised, father,” he replied, 
“ to save him.” 

For the first time, Mademoiselle d’Ar- 
langes was face to face with Noel. Their 
eyes met; and she Could not restrain a 
movement of repugnance, which the advo- 
cate perceived. 

“ Albert is already saved,” she said bit- 
terly. “ What we ask is, that prompt jus- 
tice shall be done him ; that he shall be im- 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


mediately set at liberty. The judge now 
knows the truth.” 

“ The truth ? ” exclaimed the advocate. 

“Yes; Albert passed at my house, with 
me, the evening the crime was commit- 
ted.” 

Noel looked at her surprised : so singu- 
lar a confession from such a mouth, with- 
out explanation, might well surprise him. 

She drew herself up haughtily. 

“ I am Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlanges, 
monsieur,” she said. 

M. de Commarin now quickly ran over 
all the incidents reported by Claire. 

When he had finished, — 

“ Monsieur,” replied Noel, “ you see my 
position ; leave this until to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! ” interrupted the count 
indignantly, “ you said, I believe, to-mor- 
row 1 Honor demands, monsieur, that we 
act to-day, this moment. You can do honor 
to this poor woman much better by deliver- 
ing her son than by praying for her.” 

Noel bowed low. 

“ To hear your wish, monsieur, is to obey 
it,” he said. “ I go. This evening, at your 
house, I will have the honor of giving you 
an account of my proceedings. Perhaps I 
shall be able to bring Albert with me.” 

He spoke, and, embracing the dead wo- 
man for the last time, went out. 

Soon the count and Mademoiselle d’Ar- 
langes followed. 

The old soldier went to the mayor’s, to 
make his declaration of the death, and to 
fulfil the necessary formalities. 

The nun alone remained, awaiting the 
priest, which the cure had promised to 
send to watch the corpse. 

The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither 
fear nor embarrassment ; she had been so 
many times in just such scenes. 

Her prayers said, she arose, and went 
about the room, putting every thing in the 
proper order after a death. 

She removed all traces of the sickness, hid 
the vials and little cups, burnt some sugar 
upon the fire shovel, and on a table covered 
with a white cloth at the head of the bed, 
laced some lighted candles, a crucifix with 
oly water, and a branch of palm. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Troubled and distressed by the revela- 
tions of Mademoiselle d’Arlanges, Daburon 
was ascending the stairway that led to the 
gallery of the judges of inquiry, when he 
was met by Pere Tabaret. The sight 
pleased him ; and so he called out, — 


“ Monsieur Tabaret ! ” 

But the old fellow, who showed every 
sign of the most intense agitation, was 
scarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single 
minute. 

“ You must excuse me,” he said, saluting 
him, “ but I am expected at home.” 

“ I hope, however — ” 

“ Oh, he is innocent,” interrupted Pere 
Tabaret. “ I have already some proofs ; 
and before three days — But you are 
going to see Gevrol’s man with the rings in 
his ears. He is very acute, is this Gevrol ; 
I have misjudged him.” 

And, without listening to another word, 
he hurried on, jumping down three steps 
at a time, at the risk of breaking his neck. 

Daburon, disappointed, also hastened 
on. 

In the gallery, before his office door, on 
a bench of rough wood, sat Albert under 
the charge of a garde de Paris. 

“ You will be summoned immediately,” 
said the judge to the prisoner, on opening 
the door. 

In the office, Constant was talking with 
a little man of a sorry appearance, who 
might be taken, from his dress, for an in- 
habitant of the Batignoles, even without 
the enormous false pin, which shone in his 
cravat, and which betrayed the detective. 

“ You received my letters ? ” asked 
Daburon of his clerk. “ Monsieur, your 
orders have been executed : the prisoner is 
without ; and here is Martin, who has this 
moment arrived from Les Invalides.” 

“ That is very well,” said the magistrate 
in a satisfied tone. And, turning towards 
the detective, — 

“ Well, Martin,” he asked, “ wha't have 
you found ? ” 

“ Monsieur, some one has climbed over 
the wall.” 

“ Lately ? ” 

“ Five or six days ago.” 

“ You are sure of this V ” 

“ As sure as I am that I see Constant at 
this moment mending his pen.” 

“ The marks are plain ? ” 

“ As plain as the nose on my face, if I 
may so express myself. The thief — it was 
done by a thief, I imagine — ” continued 
Martin, who was a great talker, — “ the 
thief entered before the rain, and returned 
after it, as you had conjectured. This 
circumstance is easy to establish, if you 
examine the marks of the ascent and the 
descent on the wall on the side towards 
the street. These marks are holes, made 
by the end of the boot. The first are 
clean ; the others, muddy. The scamp — 
he was a nimble fellow — entered by the 


134 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


aid of his wrists and legs ; but, in going 
out, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder, 
which he threw down as soon as he was 
over. It is very evident where it was 
placed below, by means of the holes made 
by the fellow’s weight ; above, by the dis- 
placed mortar.” 

“Is that all ? ” asked the judge. 

“ Not yet, monsieur. Three of the pieces 
of bottle which covered the top of the wall 
have been torn away. Many of the acacia 
branches, which extend out over the wall, 
have been bent and broken. From a thorn 
of one of these branches, I took this little 
piece of pearl gray kid, which appears to 
me to have come from a glove.” 

The judge took the piece with eager- 
ness. 

It was really a small fragment of a gray 
glove. 

“ You took care, I hope, Martin, not to 
attract attention at the house where you 
made this investigation ? ” 

“ Certainly, monsieur. I examined the 
exterior, at my leisure. After that, disguis- 
ing myself at a wine merchant’s around the 
corner, I called at the Marquise d’Arlanges’ 
house, giving myself out to be the servant 
of a neighboring duchess, who was in des- 
pair at having lost a favorite, and if I may 
so speak, an eloquent paroquet. They 
very kindly gave me permission to look in 
the garden ; and, as I spoke as disrespect- 
fully as possible of my pretended mistress, 
they took me for an unmistakable servant.” 

“ You are an adroit and prompt fellow, 
Martin,” interrupted the judge. “ I am well 
satisfied with you ; and I will report you 
favorably at headquarters.” 

He rang ; while the detective, delighted 
at . the praises he had received, moved 
backwards to the door, bowing the while. 

Albert was then brought in. 

“ Have you decided, monsieur,” asked 
the judge of inquiry without preamble, “ to 
give an account of how you spent Tuesday 
evening ? ” 

“ I have already given it, monsieur.” 

“ No, monsieur, you have not ; and I re- 
gret to say that you have told me a false- 
hood.” ‘ 

Albert, at 'this apparent insult, turned 
red ; and his eyes flashed. 

“ I know all that you did on that even- 
ing,” continued the judge; “because Jus- 
tice, as I have already said, is ignorant of 
nothing that it is important for it to 
know.” 

He sought Albert’s eye, met it, and said 
slowly, — 

“ 1 have seen Mademoiselle Claire 
d’Arlanges.” 


At that name, the prisoner’s features, re- 
strained by a firm resolve not to betray 
himself, relaxed. 

The immense sensation of 'delight which 
he must have felt can easily be imagined. 
He was like a man who escapes by a mir- 
acle from an imminent danger which he had 
despaired of avoiding. 

But he made no reply. 

“ Mademoiselle d’Arlanges,” continued 
the judge, “has told me where you were on 
Tuesday evening.” 

Albert still hesitated. 

“ I am not setting a trap for you,” added 
the judge. “ I give you my word of honor. 
She has told me all, you understand ? ” 

This time Albert decided to speak. 

His explanations corresponded almost 
exactly with Claire’s, — not one detail more. 
Henceforth, doubt was impossible. 

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges’ reliability had 
not been shaken. Either Albert was inno- 
cent, or she was his accomplice. 

Could she knowingly be the accomplice 
of this dreadful crime ? No ; she could not 
even be suspected of it. 

But now where to find the assassin ? 

For, in the sight of Justice, when a crime 
is once discovered, there must be a crimi- 
nal. 

“ You see, monsieur,” said the judge 
severely to Albert, “ you did deceive me. 
You risked your life, monsieur, and, what is 
still more serious, you exposed me, you ex- 
posed Justice, to a most deplorable mistake. 
Why did you not tell me the truth ? ” 

“ Monsieur,” replied Albert, “ Mademoi- 
selle d’Arlanges, in according me a meet- 
ing, trusted in my honor.” 

“ And you would have died rather than 
speak of this interview ? ” interrupted Dab- 
uron with a touch of irony. “ That is very 
fine, monsieur, worthy of the days "of chiv- 
alry ! ” 

“I am not the hero that you suppose, 
monsieur,” replied the prisoner simply. 
“ If I said that I did not count on Claire, I 
should be telling a falsehood ; I was only 
waiting for her. I knew that, on learning 
of my arrest, she would brave every thing 
to save me. But they might have hid it 
from her ; that was my only fear. In that 
case, however, they might have construed 
my silence. I think I should not have 
spoken her name.” 

• There was no appearance of bravado. 
What Albert said, he thought and felt. 
Daburon repented his irony. 

“ Monsieur,” he said kindly, “ you must 
return to your prison. I cannot release 
you yet ; but you will bo no longer in soli- 
tary confinement. You will be treated 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


135 


with every attention due a prisoner whose 
innocence is at least probable.” 

Albert bowed, and thanked him. He 
was then removed by the garde. 

“We are now ready for Gevrol,” said the 
judge to his clerk. 

The chief of detectives was absent : they 
had inquired for him at the prefecture ; but 
his witness, the man with the rings in his 
ears, was without, in the gallery. 

They told him to enter. 

He was one of those short, thick set men, 
powerful as oaks, of an iron frame, who 
look as though they could carry almost 
any weight on their broad shoulders. 

His white hair and beard made his red 
skin, burnt, scorched, tanned by the in- 
clemencies of the weather, by the storms 
of the sea and the sun of the tropics, ap- 
pear the more hard favored and ugly. 

He had large hands, blackened, hard, 
callous, with the thumbs so broad and 
knotted that they must have had the pres- 
sure of a vise. 

Large rings, in the form of an anchor, 
hung from his ears. He wore the costume 
of a well-to-do Norman fisher, when he is 
dressed for a visit to the city, or for a jour- 
ney. 

The sheriff was obliged to force him into 
the y^je. 

: wolf from the coast was frightened 
and abashed. 

He advanced, balancing himself first on 
one leg, then on the other, with that irreg- 
' ular walk of the sailor, who, missing the 
rolling and tossing of the ocean, is surprised 
to find beneath his feet any thing so im- 
movable as terra firma. 

To give himself confidence, he fumbled 
over his soft felt hat, adorned with little 
lead saints, after the fashion of king Louis 
XI. of illustrious memory, and adorned still 
more with a round gances de laine , made 
by some young country girl, in the primi- 
tive style of four or five pins placed in a 
bit of cork. 

Daburon examined him, and saw his 
worth at a glance. 

There was no doubt but what this was 
the red-faced man described by one of the 
witnesses from Jonchere. 

It was impossible also to doubt the hon- 
esty of the man. His face breathed open- 
heartedness and goodness. 

“ Your name ? ” demanded the judge of 
inquiry. 

“ Marie Pierre Lerouge.” 

“ You are, then, some relation of Clau- 
dinc Lerouge ? ” 

“ Her husband, monsieur.” 

What, the husband of the victim alive, 


and the police ignorant of even his exist- 
ence ! 

That was Daburon’s first thought. 

What, then, does this wonderful progress 
in invention accomplish ? 

To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, 
when Justice is in doubt, it requires the 
same inordinate loss of time and money to 
obtain the slightest information. 

On Friday, they had written to inquire 
about Claudine’s past life ; it was now 
Monday, and no reply had arrived. 

And yet photography was in existence, 
and the electric telegraph. They had at 
their service a thousand means, formerly 
unknown ; and they made no use of them. 

“All the world,” said the judge, “be- 
lieved her a widow. She herself pretended 
to be one.” 

“ Yes ; it was an arrangement between 
ourselves. I told her that I would have 
nothing more to do with her.” 

“Indeed? Well, you know, I suppose, 
that she is dead, — that she was the victim 
of a dreadful crime ? ” 

“ The officer who brought me here told 
me of it, monsieur,” replied the sailor, his 
face darkening. “ She was a wretch 1 ” he 
added in a deep tone. 

“ How ? You, her husband, revile her ? ” 

“ I have good reason to, monsieur. Ah, 
my dead father, who foresaw it all at tho 
time, warned me ! I laughed, when he said, 

‘ Take care, or she will dishonor you.’ He 
was right. For her sake, I have been 
hunted down by the police, just like some 
skulking thief. Everywhere that they 
have inquired after me with a description, 
people will say, ‘ Ah, ha, he has committed 
some crime ! *' And here I am before a 
court of justice ! Ah, monsieur, what a dis- 
grace ! The Lerouges have been honest 
people, from father to son, since the world 
began. Inquire through the country. 
They will tell you, ‘ Lerouge’s word is as 
good as another man’s writing.’ Yes, she 
was a wicked woman ; and I have often 
told her that she would come to a bad 
end.” 

“ You told her that ? ” 

“ More than a hundred times, monsieur ” 

“ Why ? Come, my friend, be assured ; 
your honor is not at stake here: no one 
doubts you. When did you warn her so 
wisely ? ” 

“ Ah, a long time ago, monsieur,” replied 
the sailor'; “ the first time was more than 
thirty years back. She had ambition in 
her very blood ; she wished to mix her- 
self in the intrigues of the great. It 
was that that ruined her. She said that 
you got money for preserving their secrets ; 


136 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


and I said that } r ou got disgrace along with 
it. To put up your hands to hide the vil- 
lainies of the rich, and to expect happi- 
ness from it, is like making your bed of 
thorns, in the hope of sleeping well. But 
she had got it into her head ; and it 
couldn’t be got out.” 

“ You were her husband,” objected Dab- 
uron ; “ you had the right to command her 
obedience.” 

The sailor struck his head, and heaved a 
deep sigh. 

“ Alas, monsieur ! it was I who did the 
obeying.” 

To proceed by short inquiries with a wit- 
ness, when you have no idea of the infor- 
mation he brings, is but to lose time in at- 
tempting to gain it. When you think you 
are approaching the important fact, you 
may be just avoiding it. It is much better 
to give the witness the rein, and to listen, 
putting him on the track only when he gets 
too far away. It is the surest and easiest 
method. This was the course Daburon 
pursued, all the time cursing Gevrol’s ab- 
sence, as he by a single word could have 
cut off a good half of the examination, 
whose importance, by the way, the judge 
did not even suspect. 

“ In what intrigues did your wife min- 
gle V ” asked the magistrate. “ Go on, my 
friend, tell me exactly ; here, you know, 
we must have not only the truth, but the 
whole truth.” 

Lerouge placed his hat on a chair. 
Then he began alternately to twirl his fin- 
gers, and snap them, and to scratch his 
head violently. It was his way of arranging 
his ideas. 

“ I must tell you,” he began, “ that it is 
thirty-five years since I fell in love with 
Claudine, at St. Jean. She was a bright, 
neat, fascinating girl, with a voice sweeter 
than honey. She was the most beautiful 
girl in the country, straight as a mast, sup- 
ple as a willow, as fine and strong as a ship 
of the line. Her eyes sparkled like old 
cider. She had black hair, white teeth, 
and her breath was sweeter than the sea- 
breeze. The difficulty was, that she hadn’t 
a sou, while our family were in easy cir- 
cumstances. Her mother, who had been a 
widow for some thirty-six years, was not, 
saving your presence, much respected ; and 
my father was the honestest man alive. 
When I spoke to the old fellow of marry- 
ing Claudine, he swore fiercely ; and eight 
days after, he sent me to Porto on a 
schooner belonging to one of our neigh- 
bors, pretending that it was for change of 
air. I came back, at the end of six months, 
thinner than a marling spike, but more in 


love than ever. Recollections of Claudine 
scorched me like a fire. I was fool enough 
to give up eating and drinking. I felt that 
she loved me a little in return, seeing that 
I was a stout young fellow, and more than 
one girl had set her cap for me. Then my 
father, seeing that he could do nothing, 
that I was wasting away without saying 
‘ boo ! ’ and was in a fair way to join my 
mother in the cemetery, decided to let me 
complete my folly. So one evening, after 
we had returned from fishing, and I got up 
from supper without tasting it, he said to 
me, ‘ Marry the hag, and stop this sort of 
thing.’ I remember it distinctly ; because, 
at hearing the old fellow call my love such 
a name, I flew into a passion, and almost 
wanted to kill him. Ah, one never gains 
any thing by marrying in opposition to 
one’s parents ! ” 

The brave sailor wandered in the midst 
of his recollections. He was very far 
from his story. 

The judge of inquiry attempted to bring 
him back into the right path. 

“ Let us come to our business,” he said. 

“ I am going to, monsieur ; but it is ne- 
cessary to begin at the beginning. I mar- 
ried. That evening, after the ceremony, 
and when the relatives and invited guests 
had departed, I went to join my wife, 
when I perceived my father all alone in 
one corner weeping. The sight touched 
my heart ; and I had a foreboding of evil ; 
but it quickly passed away. It is so delight- 
ful, those first six months with a dearly 
loved wife ! You seem to be surrounded 
by mists, that change the very stones into 
palaces and temples so completely that 
novices are taken in. For two years, in 
spite of a few little quarrels, every thing 
went on nicely. Claudine managed me 
like a charm. Ah, she was cunning 1 She 
seized, bound, carried me to market and 
sold me, while I was totally unconscious. 
Her great fault was her extravagance. 
All that I earned, — and my business was 
very prosperous, — she put on her back. 
Every week there was some new ornament, 
dresses, jewels, bonnets, the devil’s baubles, 
which merchants invent for the perdition 
of the female sex. The neighbors chat- 
tered ; but I thought it was all right. At 
the baptism of our son, who was called 
Jacques after my father, to please her, I 
spent, regardless of my usual economy, 
more than three hundred pistoles, — the 
very sum with which I had intended buying 
a meadow that lay in the midst of our prop- 
erty.” 

Daburon was boiling over with impa- 
tience ; but what could he do ? 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


187 


“ Go on, go on,” he said every time 
Lerouge made the slightest appearance of 
stopping. 

“ I was well enough pleased,” continued 
the sailor, “ until one morning I saw one 
of the Count de Commarin’ s servants en- 
tering our house, their chateau being only 
a quarter of a mile from our house on 
the other side of the town. There was 
something peculiar about this Germain, 
that I didn’t like at all. Then it was said 
that he had been mixed up in that affair of 
poor Thomassine, a young girl of our fam- 
ily who attended on the countess, and who 
one day suddenly disappeared. I asked 
my wife what the fellow wanted; she re- 
plied that he had come to engage her ser- 
vices as wet nurse. I couldn’t understand 
it ; for our means were sufficient to allow 
Claudine to keep all her milk for our own 
child. But she gave me the very best of 
reasons. She wanted to earn a little money, 
being ashamed of doing nothing, while I 
was killing myself with work. She 
wanted to save, to economize ; so that be- 
fore long I might not be obliged to go to 
sea any more. She was to get such a good 
price, that, in a very little while, we could 
save enough to replace the three hundred 
pistoles, and buy the meadow after all. 
That confounded meadow decided me.” 

“ Did she not tell you of the commission 
with which she was charged ? ” 

This question astonished Lerouge. He 
thought that it was said very properly that 
justice sees and knows every thing. 

“ Not then,” he answered ; “ but you shall 
see. Eight days after, the postman brought 
a letter, asking her to come to Paris to get 
the child. It arrived in the evening. 

‘ Very well,’ said she, ‘ I will start to-mor- 
row by the diligence.’ I didn’t say a word 
then ; but next morning, when she was 
about to take her seat in the diligence, I 
declared that I was going with her. She 
didn’t seem at all angry. On the contrary, 
she seemed pleased ; at which of course I 
was delighted. At Paris, she was to get 
the little one at Madame Gerdy’s, who 
lived on the Boulevarde. We arranged 
that she was to go alone, while I waited for 
her at our inn. After she had gone, I grew 
jealous. I went out in about an hour, and 
prowled about Madame Gerdy’s house, 
making inquiries of the servants and of 
the passers by, until I discovered that she 
was the mistress of the Count de Com- 
marin. Of course I was in a passion ; and, 
if I had been master, my wife should have 
gone back without the little scamp. A 
nice sort of thing to be mixed up in, to be 
sure, I thought.” 


The judge of inquiry moved uneasily 
in his chair. “ Will this man never end ? ” 
he muttered. 

“ Yes, you are perfectly right,” he said ; 

“ but never mind your thoughts. Go on, 
go on ! ” 

“ Claudine, monsieur, was more obstinate 
than a mule. After three days of violent 
discussion, and by the wicked snares of 
kissing and embracing, she tore from me 
a reluctant consent. Then she told me 
that we were not to return home by dili- 
gence. The lady, who feared the fatigue 
of the journey for her child, had arranged 
that we should carry him back by short 
stages in her carriage, and drawn by her 
horses. That was keeping up grand style. 

I was ass enough to be delighted, because 
it gave me a chance to see the country at 
my leisure. We were installed with the 
children, mine and the other, in an elegant 
carriage, drawn by magnificent animals, 
driven by a coachman in livery. My wife 
was mad with joy, and chinked the gold 
in my face. I was angry, as an honest 
husband should be, who sees money in the 
family which he didn’t earn. At seeing 
my couhtenance, Claudine, hoping to pacify 
me, resolved to tell me the whole truth. 

‘ See here,’ she said to me, — ” 

Lerouge stopped, and, changing his tone, 
said, — 

“ You understand that it is my wife who 
is speaking ? ” 

“ Yes, yes. Goon.” 

“ She said to me, shaking her purse, ‘ See 
here, my man, we shall never want again ; 
and here’s the reason : the count, who has 
a legitimate child of the same age as this, 
wishes that this youngster shall bear his 
name instead of the other ; and this can 
only be accomplished through me. On the 
road, we are to meet at an inn, where we 
arc to lodge, Germain, and the nurse to 
whom they have entrusted the legitimate 
child : we are to be put in the same cham- 
ber ; and, during the night, I am to ex- 
change the little ones, as they arc very 
much alike, one for the other. The count 
is to give eight thousand francs for it, and 
an annuity of a thousand francs.’ ” 

“ And you,” cried the judge, “you, who 
call yourself an honest man, permitted such 
a villainy, when one word would have been 
sufficient to prevent it Y ” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur,” remonstrated 
Lerouge; “if you would only let me 
finish.” 

“ Well, go on.” 

“ I could say nothing, then, I was so 
choked with rage. I was dismayed. But 
she burst out laughing, — she was always 


138 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


afraid of me when I asserted myself, — and 
said, ‘ What a fool you are I Listen, before 
you sour like a dish of milk. The count 
is the only one who wants this change 
made ; and he is the one that’s to pay for 
it. His mistress, this little one’s mother, 
doesn’t want it at all ; but she seems to 
consent, so as not to quarrel with her lover, 
and because she has got a plan of her own. 
She took me aside, during my visit in her 
room ; and, after having made me swear 
secrecy on a crucifix, she told me this plan. 
She said that she couldn’t bear the idea of 
separating herself from her babe forever, and 
of bringing up another’s child ; so she said, 
that, if I would agree not to change the chil- 
dren, keeping mum about it to the count, 
she would give me ten thousand francs 
down, and guarantee me an annuity equal 
to what the count was to give me. She 
declared, also, that she could easily find 
out whether I kept my word, as she had 
made a mark of recognition on her little 
one. She didn’t show me the mark ; and 
I have examined him carefully, but can’t 
find it. Do you understand now ? I am 
simply to take care of this little fellow here. 

I am to tell the count that I have made 
the exchange. We fill our pockets from 
both sides ; and our little Jacques will be 
a rich man. What do you think of your 
wife now ? Has she more cleverness than 
you, eh ? ’ That, monsieur, is word for 
word what Claudine said to me.” 

The rough sailor drew from his pocket 
a large blue-checked handkerchief, and 
blew his nose so violently that the windows 
shook. It was his way of weeping. 

Daburon was confounded. 

Since the beginning of this wretched 
affair, he had encountered astonishment 
after astonishment. Scarcely had he got 
his ideas in order on any one point, when 
something new arose which utterly routed 
them again. 

He felt confused. What was this new 
and grave information ? What did it 
mean ? 

He longed to investigate it instantly ; 
but he saw that Lerouge was getting on 
with difficulty, laboriously disentangling 
his memories, guided by a well-stretched 
thread, which the least interruption would 
break. 

“ What Claudine proposed to me,” con- 
tinued the sailor, “ was villainous ; and I 
was an honest man. But she kneaded me 
to her will as easily as a baker kneads a 
pate. She overcame my heart ; she made me 
see that white as snow which was really as 
black as ink. How I loved her ! She proved 
to me that we were wronging no one, and 


that we were making little Jacques’s fortune 
and I was silenced. At evening, we arrived 
at some village ; and the coachman, stopping 
the carriage before an inn, told us we were 
to lodge there. We entered, and who do 
you think we saw ? That scamp, Germain, 
with a nurse, carrying a child so exactly 
like the one we had that I was startled. 
They had journeyed there, like ourselves, 
in one of the count’s carriages. A suspi- 
cion came over me. How could I be sure 
that Claudine had not invented the second 
story to pacify me ? She was certainly 
capable of it. I was enraged. I would 
consent to the one wickedness, but not to 
the other. I resolved not to lose sight of 
our little chap, swearing that they shouldn’t 
cheat me : so I kept him all the evening 
on my knees ; and, to make it the surer, I 
tied my handkerchief about his waist. Ah 1 
their plan was well laid. After supper, 
they spoke of turning in ; and then it was 
found that there were only two rooms 
and two beds to spare in the house. It 
seemed as though it was built expressly 
for our scheme. The innkeeper said that 
the two nurses might sleep in one room, 
and Germain and myself in the other. 
You understand, monsieur V Add to this, 
that during the entire evening I had sur- 
prised looks of intelligence passing between 
my wife and that rascally servant, and you 
can imagine how furious I was. It was 
conscience that spoke ; and I was trying to 
silence it. I know very well that I was 
doing wrong ; and I almost wished my- 
self dead. Why is it these scamps caji 
almost twist an honest man’s spirit around 
like a weather-cock with every breath of 
their rascality ? ” 

Daburon’s only reply was a blow of his 
fist, almost powerful enough to break his 
desk. 

Lerouge at that proceeded more quickly. 

“ As for me, I stopped the business, pre- 
tending to be too jealous to leave my wife 
a minute. Every thing turned out as I 
wished. The other nurse went into the 
room first. Claudine and I followed soon 
afterwards. My wife laid down in her 
clothes by the side of the other nurse and 
child. I installed myself in a chair near the 
bed, determined to keep one eye open, and 
to mount close watch. I put out the candle, 
in order to let the women sleep ; as for me, 
I could scarcely think. My ideas drove 
away sleep ; and I thought of my father, 
and what he would say, if he ever knew 
what I was doing. Towards midnight, I 
heard Claudine moving. I held my breath. 
She arose. Was she going to change the 
children ? At one moment, I thought not ; 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


139 


the next, I felt sure she was. I was beside 
myself; and, seizing her by the arm, I com- 
menced to beat her roughly, letting loose 
all that I had on my heart. I spoke in a 
loud voice, as on a ship in a high wind. I 
swore like a fiend. I raised a frightful 
disturbance. The other nurse cried out, 
as if she were having her throat cut. At 
this uproar, Germain rushed in with a 
lighted candle. The sight of him finished 
me. Not knowing what I was doing, I 
drew from my pocket a Spanish knife, 
which I always carried, and, . seizing the 
cursed baby, I ran the blade across his 
arm, crying, ‘ This fellow, at least, can’t be 
changed without my knowing it ; • he is 
marked for life 1 ’ ” 

Lerouge could go on no further. 

Great drops of sweat stood out upon his 
forehead, and, flowing down his cheeks, 
lodged in the deep wrinkles of his face. 

He panted ; and the stern glance from 
the judge oppressed him, harassed him, 
urging him on, just as the whip urges on 
the negro overcome with fatigue. 

“ The wound on the little fellow,” he 
continued, “ was terrible. It bled dread- 
fully ; and he might have died : but I 
didn’t stop at that. I was troubled about 
the future, about what might happen after- 
wards ; so I determined to write out all 
that had occurred, and to have all sign it. 
This was done : we all four signed. Ger- 
main didn’t dare resist ; for I 'spoke with 
knife in hand. He wrote his name first, 
begging me only to say nothing about it to 
tlie°count, swearing that, for his part, he 
would never breathe a word of it, and 
pledging the other nurse to a like secrecy.” 

“ And have you kept this paper ? ” asked 
Daburon. 

“ Yes, monsieur : and as the officer, to 
whom I confessed all, advised me to bring 
it with me, I went to the place where I 
always kept it ; and I have it here.” 

“ Give it to me.” . 

Lerouge took from the pocket of his 
roundabout an old parchment pocket-book, 
fastened with a leather strap, and drew out 
a paper yellowed by age and careful 
hiding* 

. “ Here it is,” said he. “ The paper 
hasn’t been opened since that cursed night.” 

As the judge unfolded it, ashes fell out, 
which had been used to keep the writing, 
when wet, from blotting. 

It was really a brief description of the 
scene, described by the old sailor. The 
four signatures were all there. 

« What has become of the witnesses who 
signed this paper?” muttered the judge, 
speaking to himself. 


Lerouge thought the question was put to 
him. 

“ Germain is dead,” he replied ; “ I have 
been told that he was killed in some broil 
or other. Claudine has been assassinated ; 
but the other nurse still lives. She told 
the affair to her husband, I know ; for he 
hinted as much to me. Her name is Bros- 
sette ; and she lives in the village of Cora- 
marin itself.” 

“ Is there any thing else ? ” asked the 
judge, after having taken down the name 
and address of this woman. 

“ The next day, monsieur, Claudine 
tried to pacify me, and to extort, a promise 
of silence. The child was hardly sick at 
all ; but he retained an enormous scar on 
his arm.” . 

“Was Madame Gerdy kept in ignorance 
of what had passed ? ” 

“ I do not think so, monsieur ; but I am 
not sure.” 

“ How ? not sure .? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur. You see my ignorance 
came of what happened afterwards.” 

“ What did happen ? ” 

The sailor hesitated. 

“ That, monsieur, concerns only me 
and — ” 

“ My friend,” interrupted the judge, “ you 
are an honest man, I believe ; in fact, 1 am 
sure. But once in your life, influenced by 
a wicked woman, you did wrong, — you 
became an accomplice in a very great 
crime. Repair that error, by speaking 
truly now. All that is said here, and 
which is not directly connected with the 
crime, remains secret ; even I will forget it 
immediately. Fear nothing and, if you 
experience some humiliation, remember it 
is your punishment for the past.” 

“ Alas, monsieur,” answered the sailor, 
“I have been already punished; It is a 
long time since my trouble began. Money, 
wickedly acquired, brings no good. On 
arriving home, I bought the wretched 
meadow for much more than it was worth ; 
and, the day I walked t over it, feeling that 
it was actually mine, closed my happiness. 
Claudine was a coquette ; but she had vices 
still worse. When she realized how much 
money we had, these vices burst forth, just 
as a fire, smouldering at the bottom of the 
hold, bursts forth when you open the hatches. 
Instead of the slight eater she had been, 
her appetite got to be enormous enough, 
saving your presence, to strike you with 
horror. There was feasting in our house 
without end. When I would go to sea, she 
would entertain the worst scoundrels in the 
country ; and there was nothing too good 
or too expensive for them. She took to 


140 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


drinking, too ; so that she was half her time 
far from sober. One night, when she 
thought me at Rouen, I unexpectedly 
returned. I entered, and found her with 
the head bailiff’ of the town. I might have 
killed him, like the vermin that he was : it 
was my right ; but I had pity on him. I 
took him by the neck and pitched him out 
the window, without opening it. It didn’t 
kill him, more’s the pity ! Then I fell upon 
my wife, and beat her until she couldn’t 
stir.” 

Lerouge spoke in a harsh voice, now 
and then thrusting his restless hands into 
his eyes. 

“ I pardoned her,” he continued ; “ and 
the man who beats his wife and then par- 
dons her is lost. In the future, she only 
takes better precautions, — becomes more 
of a hypocrite. In the mean while, Mad- 
ame Gerdy had taken back her child ; and 
Claudine had nothing more to restrain her. 
Protected and counselled by her mother, 
whom she had taken to live with us, and 
who took care of our Jacques, she man- 
aged to deceive me for more than a year. 
I thought she had recovered her better 
senses ; but not at all : she lived a terrible 
life. My house became the resort of all the 
good-for-nothing rogues in the country, for 
whom my wife brought out bottles of wine 
and brandy ; and, while I was away at sea, 
they got drunk promiscuously. When 
money failed, she wrote to the count or his 
mistress; and the orgies continued. Oc- 
casionally I had doubts which disturbed 
me ; and then without reason, for a simple 
yes or no, I would beat her until she was 
even more thirsty, and after that pardon 
like a coward, like an imbecile. It was a 
hard life. I don’t know which gave me the 
most pleasure, embracing her or beating 
her. Everybody in the village despised 
me, and turned their backs on me ; they be- 
lieved me an accomplice or a willing dupe. 
I heard, afterwards, that they believed I 
shared the profits of my wife’s conduct ; 
while in reality there were no profits. At 
all events, they wondered where all the 
money came from that was spent in my 
house. To distinguish me from a cousin of 
mine, also named Lerouge, they tacked on 
an infamous word to my name. What dis- 
grace 1 And I knew nothing of all the 
scandal, — no, nothing. Would that I had 
never married ! Fortunately, though, my 
father was dead.” 

Daburon pitied him sincerely. 

“ Rest yourself, my friend,” he said ; 
“ wait an instant.” 

“ No,” replied the sailor, “ I would 
rather get through with it quickly. One 


man, the priest, had the charity to tell me 
of it. Never had such a thing happened 
to a Lerouge ! Without losing a moment, 
I sought a lawyer, and asked him how an 
honest man ought to act who had had the 
misfortune to marry such a woman. He 
said that nothing could be done. To go to 
law was simply to publish one’s own dis- 
honor; while a separation would accom- 
plish nothing. When once a man has 
given his name to a woman, he told me, he 
could no longer take it back : he had 
shared it with her for the rest of her life ; 
she had the right to keep it. She may 
sully it, cover it with mire, drag it from 
wine-shop to wine-shop; and the husband 
can do nothing. That being the case, my 
course was soon taken. That same day I 
sold the fatal meadow, and sent the price 
of it to Claudine, wishing to keep nothing 
of the price of shame. I then drew up a 
paper, authorizing her to use our property, 
but not allowing her either to sell or mort- 
gage it. Then I wrote a letter to her, in 
which I told her that she need never ex- 
pect to speak with me again ; that I was 
nothing more to her, and that she might 
look upon herself as a widow : and that 
night I went away with my son.” 

“ And what became of your wife after 
your departure V ” 

“I cannot say, monsieur: I only know 
that she quitted the country a year after I 
did.” 

“ You have never seen her since ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ But you were at her house three days 
before this crime was committed.” 

“ That is true, monsieur ; but that was 
absolutely necessary. I had been at much 
trouble to find her : no one knew what had 
become of her. Fortunately my notary 
was able to procure Madame Gerdy’s ad- 
dress. He wrote to her ; and that is how I 
knew that Claudine was living at Jonchere. 
I had just come from Rouen. Capt. 
Gervais, who is a friend of mine, offered to 
bring me to Paris on his boat; and I ac- 
cepted. Ah, monsieur, what a shock I ex- 
perienced when I entered her house 1 My 
wife did not know me ! By constantly tell- 
ing the world that I was dead, slip had 
without a doubt ended by believing it her- 
self. When I told my name, she fell back. 
The wretched woman had not changed in 
the least ; she had by her side a glass and 
a bottle of brandy — ” 

“ All this doesn’t explain why you were 
seeking your wife.” 

“ It was on Jacques’s account, monsieur, 
that I went. The little boy has grown to 
be a man ; and he is anxious to marry. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


141 


For that, his mother’s consent is necessary ; 
and I was taking to Claudine a paper, 
which the notary had drawn up, and which 
she signed. Here it is now.” 

Daburon took the paper, and appeared 
to read it attentively. After a moment he 
asked, — 

“ Have you tried to think who could 
have assassinated your wife ? ” 

Lerouge made no reply. 

“ Have you had suspicions of any one ? ” 
persisted the judge. 

“ Well, monsieur,” replied the sailor, 
** what can I say ? It might be that Clau- 
dine had wearied out these people from 
whom she drew money, like water from a 
well ; or perhaps, getting drunk some day, 
she blabbed too freely.” 

The testimony being as full as^ possible, 
Daburon discharged Lerouge, at the same 
time advising him to wait for Gevrol, who 
would take him to a hotel, where he might 
wait, at the disposal of justice, until further 
orders. 

“ All your expenses will be repaid you,” 
added the judge. 

Lerouge had scarcely turned on his heel, 
when an event grave, extraordinary, un- 
heard of, unprecedented, took place in the 
office of the judge of inquiry. 

Constant, the serious, impassive, immov- 
able, deaf and dumb Constant, arose and 
spoke. 

He broke a silence of fifteen years. He 
forgot himself so far as to offer an opinion. 

He said, — 

“ This, monsieur, is a most extraordinary 
affair.” 

Very extraordinary, truly, thought Dab- 
uron. putting to rout all predictions, all 
preconceived opinions. 

Why had he, the judge, moved with 
such deplorable haste ? Why, before risk- 
ing any thing, had he not waited to possess 
alf the elements of this weighty matter, to 
hold all the threads of this complicated 
plot ? 

Justice is accused of slowness ; but it is 
this very slowness that constitutes its 
strength and surety, its almost infallibil- 
ity. 

One cannot know, on the instant, what 
course the testimony will take. 

There is no knowing what facts investi- 
gations apparently useless may reveal. 

The dramas of the court of assize lose 
much by not observing the unities. 

When the labyrinth of the various pas- 
sions and motives seems inextricable, an 
unknown personage presents himself*, com- 
ing from, no one knows where ; and it is he 
who brings on the denouement. 


Daburon, usually the most prudent of 
men, had considered as simple one of the 
most complex of cases. He had acted in 
a mysterious crime, which demanded the 
utmost caution, as carelessly as though it 
were a case of simple misdemeanor. Why ? 
Because his memory had not left free his 
deliberation, his judgment, his discern- 
ment. He had feared equally appearing 
weak and appearing revengeful Thinking 
himself sure of his facts, he had been car- 
ried away by his animosity. And yet how 
often had he deceived himself with the 
idea of duty ! But then, when you are at 
all doubtful about your duty, you are always 
on a false track. 

The singular part of it all was, that the 
faults of the judge of inquiry sprang from 
his very honesty. He had been led astray 
by a too great refinement of conscience. 
The scruples which troubled him had filled 
his mind with phantoms, had pushed him 
even to a passionate animosity. 

Calmer now, he examined the matter 
more soundly. As a whole, thank heaven 1 
there was nothing done which could not be 
repaired. He accused himself, however, 
none the less hardly. Chance alone had 
stopped him. On the instant, he resolved 
that this examination should be his last. 
His profession henceforth could inspire 
him only with an unconquerable loathing. 
Then his interview with Claire had opened 
all the old wounds in his heart ; and they 
bled more dreadfully than ever. He felt, 
in despair, that his life was broken, ruined. 
A man may well feel so, when all women 
are as nothing to him except one, whom he 
may never hope to possess. 

Too religious to think of suicide, he asked 
himself with anguish what would become of 
him when he should throw aside his judge’s 
robes. 

Then he returned again to the business 
in hand. In any case, innocent or guilty, 
Albert was really the Viscount de Com- 
marin, the count’s legitimate son. But was 
he guilty ? Plainly not. 

“ I think,” he cried out suddenly, “ I had 
better speak to the Count de Commarin. 
Constant, send to his house and bring him 
here at once ; if he is not at home, have 
him sought for.” 

Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty 
was before him. He should have to say to 
the old gentleman, “ Monsieur, I was mista- 
ken about your legitimate son ; you have 
still the right one with you.” What a po- 
sition, not only painful, but bordering on 
the ridiculous ! As a compensation, though, 
he could tell him that Albert was inno- 
cent. 


142 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


To Noel he must also tell the truth, must 
hurl him to earth, after having raised 
him among the clouds. What a blow it 
would be ! But, without a doubt, the 
count would make him some compensation ; 
at least, he ought to. 

“ Now,” muttered the judge, “ who can 
be the criminal ? ” 

A dark suspicion flashed across his brain, 
which immediately after appeared to him ut- 
terly absurd. He rejected it, then thought 
of it again. He trfrned and returned it, 
examined it in all its various aspects. He 
was almost decided, when M. de Commarin 
entered. 

Daburon’s messenger had arrived just as 
he was alighting from his carriage, on 
returning with Claire from Madame 
Gerdy’s. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Pere Tabaret had spoken ; but he had 
also acted. 

Abandoned by the judge of inquiry to 
his own resources, he went to work with- 
out losing a moment’s time and without tak- 
ing a moment’s rest. 

The story of the cabriolet, drawn by a 
swift horse, was exact jn every particular. 

Lavish with his money, the old fellow 
had gathered together a dozen detectives 
on leave or out of work ; and at the head 
of these worthy assistants, seconded by his 
friend Lecoq, he had gone to Bougival. 

He had actually searched the country, 
house by house, with the obstinacy and the 
patience of a maniac hunting for a needle 
in a hay-stack. 

His efforts were not absolutely wasted. 

After three days’ investigation, he felt 
comparatively sure of this : the assassin 
had not loft the cars at Rueil, as all the 
people of Bougival, Jonchere, and Marly 
do, but had gone on as far as Chatou. 

Tabaret thought he recognized him in a 
man, described to him by the employes at 
that station as still young, of brown com- 
plexion, with a pair of black whiskers, la- 
den with a great coat and an umbrella. 

This traveller, who arrived by the train 
which left Paris for St. Germain at thirty- 
five minutes past eight in the evening, had 
appeared very depressed. 

On quitting the station, he had started 
off at a rapid pace on the road which led 
to Bougival. Upon the way, two men 
from Marly and a woman from Malmaison 
had noticed him, and wondered at his long 
strides. He smoked all the way. 


On crossing the bridge which joins the 
two banks of the Seine at Bougival, he had 
been again noticed. 

It is usual to pay a toll on crossing 
this bridge ; and the supposed assassin had 
apparently forgotten this circumstance. 

He had passed without paying, keeping 
up his rapid pace, pressing his elbows to 
his side, husbanding his breath; and the 
gate-keeper was obliged to rush after him 
for his pay. . 

He appeared much provoked at this 
circumstance, threw down a ten sous’ piece, 
and went on, without waiting for the forty- 
five centimes due him as change. 

Nor was that all. 

The station agent at Rueil remembered, 
that, two minutes before the quarter past 
ten train passed, a traveller arrived agita- 
ted, and so out of breath that he could 
scarcely ask for a ticket — a second class 
ticket — for Paris. 

The appearance of this man corresponded 
exactly to the description given of him by 
his employes, at Chatou, and by the gate- 
keeper at the bridge. 

Finally, the old man got on the track of 
an individual who bad occupied the same 
compartment with him. 

He proved to be a baker of Asnieres; 
and he had written to him, asking an inter- 
view. 

Such was Pere Tabaret’s balance sheet, 
when on Monday morning he presented 
himself at the palias de justice, in order to 
hear if there had been any information 
received as to the Widow Lerouge’s past 
life. 

He found that none had arrived ; but in 
the gallery he met Gevrol and his man. 

The chief of detectives was triumphant, 
and showed it, too. On seeing Tabaret, 
he called out, — 

“ Ah, well, my illustrious bird’s-nest 
hunter, what news ? Have you found 
any more mare’s nests, since the other day ? 
Ah, you old rogue, you are aiming for my 
place 1 ” 

The old man was sadly changed. 

The consciousness of his mistake made 
him humble and meek. These pleasantries, 
which a few days before would have made 
him angry, now did not touch him. Instead 
of replying, he bowed his head in such a 
penitent manner that Gevrol was aston- 
ished 

“Jeer at me, my good Gevrol,” he re- 
plied, “ mock me without pity : you are 
right ; I deserve it all.” 

“ Ah,” said the chief, “ you have per- 
formed some new masterpeice,- my ardent 
old fellow ! ” 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


143 


P&re Tabaret shook his head sadly. 

“ I have delivered up an innocent man,” 
he said; “and justice will not give him 
back to me.” 

Gevrol was delighted, and rubbed his 
hands until he almost wore away the skin. 

“ This is fine,” he sang out, “ this is cap- 
ital. To bring criminals to justice is of no 
account at all ; but to free the innocent, 
Jove 1 that is the last touch of art. Papa 
Tirauclair, you are a wonder ; and I bow 
before you.” 

At the same time, he lifted his hat ironi- 
cally. 

“ Don’t crush me,” replied the old fellow. 
“ As you know, in spite of my gray hairs, 
I am young in the profession. Because 
chance has served me three or four times, I 
had become foolishly proud. I learned too 
late that I was not all that I had thought 
myself. I was but an apprentice, and suc- 
cess had turned my head ; while you, Gev- 
rol, you were always my master. In the 
^lace of laughing, pray help me, aid me 
with your counsels and your experience. 
Alone, I can do nothing as well as if I had 
your assistance.” 

Gevrol was elated in the highest degree. 

Tabaret’s submission, which he really 
thought a great deal of at heart, tickled 
his pretentions as a detective immensely. 

He was softened. 

“ I suppose,” he said patronizingly, “ you 
refer to the Jonchere matter.” 

“ Alas ! yes, dear Gevrol, I wished to 
go on without you ; but I have been 
dished.” 

Tabaret’s old cunning kept his counte- 
nance as penitent as that of a sacristan, 
surprised while cooking meat on Friday; 
but at heart he was laughing and rejoicing 
all the while. 

“ Conceited simpleton 1 ” he thought, “ I 
will flatter you so that you will end by 
doing just what I want you to.” 

Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his 
lower lip, and said, “ Ah, — hem ! ” 

He pretended to hesitate ; but it was only 
because he enjoyed prolonging the old 
amateur’s discomfiture. 

“ Come,” said he at last, “ cheer up, Papa 
Tirauclair. I am a good fellow at heart ; 
and I’ll give you a lift. It is kind in me, 
isn’t it r But, to-day, I am entirely too 
busy. I am expected below now. Come 
to me to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk 
it. over. But before we part I’ll give you 
a li<dit to find your way with. Do you 
know who this witness is that I have 
brought Y ” 

“ No ; but tell me, my good Gevrol.” 

“ Well, that fellow on the bench there, 


who is waiting for Monsieur Daburon, is 
the husband of the victim of the Jonchfcre 
tragedy ! ” 

“ It is impossible,” said Pere Tabaret 
stunned. Then, after reflecting, he added, 
“ you are joking with me.” 

“ No, upon my word. Go ask him his 
name ; he will tell you that he is called 
Pierre Lerouge.” 

“ She wasn’t a widow then ? ” 

“ It appears not,” replied Gevrol sarcas- 
tically, “ since there i3‘ her happy spouse.” 

“ Whew ! ” muttered the old fellow. 
“ And does he bring any information ? ” 

In a few sentences, the chief explained 
to his amateur colleague the story that Le- 
rouge was about to give to the judge of 
inquiry. 

“ What do you say to that ? ” he de- 
manded at the end. 

“ What do I say to that ? ” stammered 
Pere Tabaret, whose countenance indicated 
intense astonishment, “ what do I say to 
that ? I don’t say any thing. But I think, 
— no, I don’t think at all ! ” 

“ A tile has fallen, eh, what ? ” said Gev- 
rol beaming. t 

“ Say rather a blow of a club,” replied 
Tabaret. 

But suddenly he recovered himself, giv- 
ing his forehead a hard blow with his fist. 

“ And my baker 1 ” he cried, “ to-mor- 
row, then, Gevrol.” 

“ lie is crazed,” thought the chief of de- 
tectives. 

The old fellow was sane enough ; but he 
had entirely forgotten the Asnieres baker, 
whom he had appointed to meet at his 
house. He might find him there still. 

On the stairway he met Daburon ; but 
he hardly deigned to reply to him. 

He was soon out, and trotting like a lean 
cat along the quays. 

“ There ; we’ll fix it all right,” he said 
to himself. “ Noel may feel bad but he 
shan’t suffer. Pshaw ! if he likes, I’ll 
adopt him. Tabaret doesn’t sound so well 
as Commarin, but it’s at least a name. No 
matter. Gevrol’s story affects in no way 
Albert’s situation nor my convictions. He 
is the legitimate son ; so much the better 
for him. That doesn’t in any way prove 
his innocence, though, unless I am mis- 
taken. He evidently knows nothing of 
these surprising circumstances, any more 
than his father. He must believe, as well 
as the count, in the substitution having 
taken place. Madame Gerdy, too, must 
have- been ignorant of these facts; they 
must have invented some story to explain 
the scar. But then she must have known 
that Noel was really her son ; for she had 


144 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


placed a mark of recognition upon him, 
winch she of course examined when he was 
returned to her. Then, when Noel discov- 
ered the count’s letters, she must have has- 
tened to explain to him — ” 

Pere Tabaret stopped as suddenly as if 
his path were obstructed by a dangerous 
reptile. 

He was terrified at the conclusion he 
had reached. 

“ Noel, then, must be the assassin of the 
Widow Lerouge, that he might prevent her 
confessing that the substitution never took 
place ; and he burnt the letters and papers 
which proved it ! ” 

But he pushed away with horror this 
supposition, as every honest man drives 
away a detestable thought which by acci- 
dent gets into his mind. 

“ What an old fool I am ! ” he exclaimed, 
resuming his walk ; “ this is the result of 
the dreadful profession I used to glory in 
following. Suspect Noel, my boy, my sole 
heir, the personification of virtue and 
honor, — Noel, whom ten years of constant 
intercourse have taught me to esteem and 
admire to such a degree that I would 
speak for him as I would for myself ? Men 
of his class must have terrible passions to 
push them to shedding blood : and I have 
never known Noel to have but two pas- 
sions, his mother, and his profession. And 
I dare even to breathe a suspicion against 
this noble character ! I ought to be 
whipped. Old fool ! isn’t the lesson you 
have already received sufficiently terrible ? 
Will you never be more cautious ? ” 

Thus he reasoned, forcing himself to re- 
pel these disquieting thoughts, and re- 
straining his habits of investigation ; but 
in his heart a tormenting voice constantly 
whispered, “ Could it be Noel ? ” 

Pere Tabaret arrived at the Rue St. La- 
zare. Before his door stood an elegant 
blue coupe', drawn by a magnificent horse. 
Mechanically he stopped. 

“ A handsome animal I ” he said ; “ my 
lodgers must be receiving some fine call- 
ers.” 

They were apparently receiving very 
bad ones, too ; for, at that moment, he saw 
Clergeot coming out, honest Clergeot, 
whose presence in a house betrayed ruin 
just as surely as the presence of under- 
takers indicate death. 

The old detective, who knew everybody, 
was well acquainted with the honest banker. 
He had even had business with him once, 
examining his books. 

He stopped him. 

“ Halloa 1 you old crocodile,” said he ; 
“ you have business, then, in my house ? ” 


“ So it seems,” replied Clergeot dryly, 
not liking to be treated with such famih- 
arity. 

“ Hold on 1 ” shouted Pere Tabaret. 

And, urged by the very natural curios- 
ity of a proprietor very careful about the 
kind of lodgers he takes, he added, — 

“ Who the devil are you ruining now ? ” 

“ I never ruin any one,” replied Clergeot, 
with an air of offended dignity. “ Have 
you ever had reason to complain of me in 
our affairs ? I think not. Ask the young 
advocate up there, who does business with 
me, if you like ; lie will tell you whether 
he lias reason to regret knowing me.” 

Tabaret was painfully impressed. 

What, Noel, the prudent Noel, one of 
Clergeot’s customers 1 What could that 
mean ? Perhaps there was no harm in it ; 
but he remembered the fifteen thousand 
francs of Thursday. 

“Yes,” said he, wishing to get a little 
more information, “ I know that young Ger- 
dy spends a pretty round sum.” 

Clergeot was always sensitive, and never 
left his profession undefended when at- 
tacked. 

“It isn’t he personally,” he objected, 
“ who makes the money dance ; it’s that 
charming little girl of his. Ah, she’s a great 
one ; she’d eat the devil, hoofs, horns, and 
all 1 ” 

What, a mistress, — a creature whom 
Clergeot himself, fond of the little girls, 
considered expensive ! This revelation, at 
this time, pierced the old man to the heart. 
But he dissembled. A gesture, a look, 
might awaken the usurer’s defiance, and 
close his mouth. 

“ That’s well known,” he replied, in as 
careless a tone as he could muster ; “ youth 
must have something to amuse itself with. 
But what do you suppose that this little 
girl costs him a year ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know ! He is wrong in not 
limiting her. According to my calculation, 
she must have, during the four years that 
he has had her, cost him in the neighbor- 
hood of five hundred thousand francs.” 

Four years? Five hundred thousand 
francs ! 

These words, these figures, burst like a 
bombshell on Tabaret’s brain. 

A half million ! 

In that case, Noel must be utterly ruined. 
But then — 

“ It is a great deal,” said he, succeeding 
by desperate efforts in hiding his suffer- 
ings ; “ it is enormous ; but then, Gerdy 
has resources.” 

“ He ? ” interrupted the usurer, shrug-' 
! ging his shoulders. “ Not a bit of it,” he 


THE WIDOW LEROUG-E. 


145 


added, snapping liis fingers ; “ he is utterly- 
ruined. But, if he owes you money, never 
fear. He is a sly dog : he is going to get 
married. I have just renewed his notes for 
twenty-six thousand francs, on that under- 
standing. Au reooir, Monsieur Tabaret.” 

The usurer hurried away, leaving the 
poor old fellow standing still as a stone in 
the street. 

He experienced something of that terri- 
ble grief which breaks a father’s heart, when 
he begins to realize that his dearly-loved 
son is perhaps the worst of scoundrels. 

And, moreover, such was his confidence 
in Noel that he struggled with his reason 
to again resist the suspicion which torment- 
ed him. Might not this usurer be slander- 
ing the advocate ? 

People who demand more than ten per 
cent are capable of any thing. Evidently 
he had exaggerated the extent of Noel’s 
follies. 

And, even if it were true, have not 
many men done just such insane things 
for women, without ceasing to be honest ? 

He was about entering his door. 

A whirlwind of silk, lace, and velvet 
barred the passage. 

A bright young brunette was coming out. 

She jumped as lightly as a bird into the 
blue coupe. 

Pere Tabaret was a gallant man, and the 
young girl was most charming; but he 
never even glanced at her. 

He entered ; and beneath the arch he 
found his porter standing, cap in hand, look- 
ing tenderly with his one eye at a twenty 
franc piece. 

“ Ah, monsieur,” said the man, “ such a 
fine lady, so ladylike! If you had only 
been here five minutes sooner.” 

“ What lady ? why ? ” 

“ This fine lady, who just went out, mon- 
sieur, she came to inquire about Monsieur 
Gerdy. She gave me twenty francs for 
answering her questions. It. seems that 
monsieur is going to be married; and she 
was evidently much excited at. it. Superb 
creature ! I know now why he is out every 
night.” 

“ Monsieur Gerdy ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur ; but I have never spo- 
ken to. you of it, because he seemed to hide 
it. He never asked me to open for him : 
no, he wasn’t such a fool. He slipped out 
by the little back gate. I said to myself, 
‘ He don’t want to disturb me : it is very 
thoughtful on his part; and he seems to 
enjoy it so.’ ” 

The porter spoke with his eye constantly 
fixed on the gold piece. 

When he raised his head to examine the 

10 


countenance of his master, Tabaret had 
disappeared. 

“ There is another fine fellow ! ” said 
the porter to himself. “ A hundred sous, 
that master runs after the superb creature. 
Run ahead ; go it, old graybeard.” The 
porter was right. Pere Tabaret did run 
after the lady in the blue coupe 

He thought, “ She will tell me all ‘ r ” and 
instantly he was in the street. . 

He reached it just in time to seethe blue 
coupe turn the corner of the Rue St. La- 
zare. 

“ Heavens ! ” he muttered. “ I shall lose 
sight of her, just when the truth is in my 
grasp.” 

He was in one of those states of nervous 
excitement which call forth prodigies. 

He ran to the end of the Rue St. Lazare 
as rapidly as if he had been a young man 
of twenty. 

Joy ! Five steps from him he saw the 
blue coupe in the Rue Havre, stopped in 
the midst of a blockade of carriages. 

“ I have her,” he murmured. 

He looked all through the neighborhood 
of the Ouest, that street where unemployed 
carriages are almost invariably roving ; not 
a carriage ! 

Gladly would he have cried, like Richard 
the III.,— 

“ My kingdom for a hackney coach.” 

The blue coupe got out of the entangle- 
ment, and started off rapidly towards the 
Rue Tronchet. The old fellow followed 
after. 

He kept his ground. The coupe gained 
but little upon him. 

While he was running in the middle of 
the road, keeping an eye out for a carriage, 
he kept saying, — 

“ Follow on, old fellow, follow on. If 
you haven’t a head, you must use your legs. 
Why didn’t you remember to get this 
woman’s address from Clergeot ? You 
must be sharper than that, my old friend, 
sharper than that 1 

“ If you want to be a detective, you must 
be fit for the profession ; and every detec- 
tive ought to. have the shanks of a deer.” 

He thought only of catching up with the 
blue coupe and of nothing else. But he 
was losing ground, — plainly losing ground. 

He was only half-way down the Rue 
Tronchet, and he broke down : he felt that his 
limbs could not carry him a hundred steps 
farther ; and the cursed coupe had reached 
the Madeleine. 

Hurrah 1 a covered hack, going in the 
same direction with himself, passed by. 

He made a sign, more despairing than 
a drowning man’s. The sign was seen. 


146 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


He gathered together his last strength, and 
with a bound jumped up into the vehicle 
without the aid of the step. 

“ There,” he gasped, “ that blue coupe ; 
twenty francs.” 

“ All right,” replied the coachman, nod- 
ding. 

And he covered his ill-conditioned horse 
with vigorous blows, muttering, — 

“ A jealous husband following his wife ; 
that’s evident. Hi, you rascal ! ” 

As for Pere Tabaret, he was a long time 
in recovering himself, his strength was so 
completely exhausted. 

For nearly a minute, he could not catch 
his breath. They were soon upon the 
boulevarde. He stood up in the carriage, 
supporting himself by the driver’s seat. 

“ I don’t see the coupe any longer,” he 
said. 

“ Oh, I see it plainly ! But it is drawn by 
a splendid horse ! ” 

“ Yours ought to be a better one. I said 
twenty francs ; I’ll make it forty.” 

The driver whipped up unpityingly, and 
growled, — 

“ There is no use talking, I must catch 
her. For twenty francs, I would have let 
her escape ; for I love the girls, and always 
help them if I can. But, gracious ! Two 
louis ! I wonder how a man who is as 
ugly as that can be jealous.” 

Pere Tabaret tried every way to occupy 
his mind with less important matters. 

He tried not to reflect, wishing first to 
see this woman, speak with her, and care- 
fully question her. 

He was sure that by one word she would 
destroy or save her lover. 

“ What, destroy Noel? Ah, well, yes.” 

This idea of Noel as the assassin har- 
assed, tormented, pestered his brain, like 
the moth which coming over and over 
again, wounds itself at last against the 
glass, or burns in the flame. 

As they passed Chau see d’Antin, the 
blue coupe was scarcely thirty paces in ad- 
vance. The driver of the hack turned, 
and said, — 

“ The coupe has stopped.” 

“ Then stop also. Don’t lose sight of it ; 
but be ready to start again at the same 
time it does.” 

Pere Tabaret leaned as far as he could 
out of the hack. 

The young girl got out, crossed the 
pavement, and entered a shop where cassi- 
mere and laces were sold. 

“ There,” thought Pere Tabaret, “ is 
where the thousand franc notes go ! Half 
a million in four years 1 What can these 
creatures do with the money so lavishly 


poured upon them ? Do they eat it ? On 
the altar of what caprices do they squander 
their fortunes ? They are the devil’s 
own love potions, given to these idiots to 
drink, making them ruin themselves for 
them. They must possess some peculiar 
art of preparing and spicing pleasure ; 
since, once they get hold of a man, he 
sacrifices every thing before leaving them.” 

The hack moved on once more, but soon 
stopped again. 

The coupe made a new pause, this time 
before a curiosity shop. 

“ The woman wants to buy out all 
Paris ! ” said the old fellow to himself in a 
passion. “ Yes, if Noel committed the 
crime, it was she who pushed him on. 
These are my fifteen thousand francs that 
she is frittering away now. How long will 
they last her? It must have been for 
money, then, , that Noel murdered this 
Lerouge woman. He must be the lowest, 
most infamous of men ! What a monster 
of dissimulation and hypocrisy ! And to 
think that he would be my heir, if I should 
die here in my rage 1 Yes, it is written in 
so many words, ‘I leave to my son Noel 
Gerdy ! ’ If this boy is guilty, there isn’t 
a punishment sufficiently great for him. I 
wonder if this woman is never going 
home I ” 

“ This woman ” was in no hurry. The 
day was charming, her toilette irresistible ; 
and she intended showing herself off. She 
visited three or four more stores, and at 
last stopped at a confectioner’s, where she 
remained for more than quarter of an 
hour. 

The old fellow, driven to destruction, 
jumped and stamped in his hack. 

It was torture thus to be kept from the 
key to a terrible enigma by the caprice of 
a worthless hussy 1 He was dying to fol- 
low her, take her by the arm, and cry 
out to her, — 

“ Home, wretched creature, home at 
once ! What are you doing here ? Don’t 
you know that at this moment your lover, 
he whom you have ruined, is suspected of 
an assassination? Home, then, that I may 
question you, that I may learn from you 
whether he is innocent or guilty ; for you 
can tell me, without a doubt, and I have 
prepared a fine trap to catch you with. 
Home, for this anxiety is killing me 1 ” 

She returned to her carriage. 

It moved on, passed up the Faubourg 
Montmarte, turned into the Rue Pro- 
vence, deposited its fair freight at her own 
door, and drove away. 

“ She lives here,” said Pere Tabaret, 
with a sigh of relief. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


147 


He got off the hack, gave the driver his 
two louis, bade him wait, and followed the 
young girl’s footsteps. 

“ The old fellow is patient,” thought the 
driver; “but the little brunette is a sly 
one.” 

The old detective opened the door of 
the porter’s lodge. 

“ What is the name of the lady who has 
just entered? ” he demanded. 

The porter did not seem disposed to 
reply. 

“ Her name ! ” insisted the old man. 

The tone was so short, so imperative, that 
the old porter was upset. 

“ Madame Juliette Chaff bur,” he replied. 

“ On what floor ? ” 

“ The second, — the door opposite you.” 

A moment after, the old man was wait- 
ing in Madame Juliette’s parlors. Ma- 
dame was dressing, the chambermaid in- 
formed him, and would be down instantly. 

Pere Tabaret was astonished at the lux- 
ury of this parlor. There was nothing flar- 
ing, or coarse, or in bad taste. The old 
fellow, who knew a good deal about such 
things, saw that every thing was of the 
costliest. The ornaments on the mantel 
alone must have cost, at the lowest esti- 
mation, twenty thousand francs. 

“ Clergeot,” he said, “ didn’t exaggerate 
a bit.” 

Juliette’s entrance disturbed his reflec- 
tions. 

She had taken off her dress, and had 
hastily thrown about her a black dressing- 
gown, trimmed with cherry satin. Her 
beautiful hair, slightly disordered after her 
drive, fell in cascades upon her neck, and 
was fastened behind her delicate ears. 
She dazzled Pere Tabaret ; and yet he 
perfectly understood such follies. 

“ You wished to speak with me ? ” she 
inquired, bending graciously. 

“ Madame,” replied Pere Tabaret, “ I 
am a friend of Noel Gerdy’s, I may say 
his best friend, and ” — 

“ Pray sit down, monsieur,” interrupted 
the lady. 

She placed herself on a sofa, just show- 
ing the tips of her little feet encased in 
slippers matching the dress ; while the old 
man sat down in a chair. 

“ I come, madame,” he began, “ on 
very serious business. Your presence at 
Monsieur Gerdy’s house — ” 

“Ah,” cried Juliette to herself, “he 
knows of my visit already ; he must be a 
detective.” 

“ My dear child — ” began Tabaret, pa- 
ternally. 

“ Oh ! I know, monsieur, what your er- 


rand is. Noel has sent you to scold me. 
He is anxious to prevent my coming to his 
house. Well, I don’t want to go ; but it’s 
annoying to have a puzzle for a lover, — 
a man whom nobody knows any thing 
about, a riddle in a black coat and white 
cravat, a sad and mysterious being — ” 

“ You have been imprudent.” 

“ Why ? Because he is going to get 
married ? He has told you all about it, 
then ? ” 

“ Suppose that that was not true.” 

“ Oh, but it is ! He told that old shark 
Clergeot so, who told me. Any way, he 
must be plotting something in that head 
of his ; for the last month he has been so 
fickle: he has changed so that I hardly 
recognize him.” 

Pere Tabaret was especially anxious to 
know whether Noel had prepared an alibi 
for the Tuesday of the crime. That for 
him was the grand question. If he had, he 
was certainly guilty ; if not, he might still 
be innocent. Madame Juliette, he had no 
doubt, could make that point perfectly clear. 

Consequently he had come with his les- 
son all prepared, his little trap all set. 

The young lady’s outburst disconcerted 
him a little ; but he continued, trusting to 
the chances in conversation, — 

“ Will you prevent Noel’s marriage, 
then ? ” 

“ His marriage ! ” cried Juliette, burst- 
ing out into a laugh ; “ ah, the poor boy ! 
If he meets no worse obstacle than myself, 
his path will be smooth. Let him marry, 
this dear Noel, the sooner the better, and 
let me hear no more of him.” 

“ You don’t love him, then ? ” asked the 
old fellow, surprised at this amiable frank- 
ness. 

“ Listen, monsieur. I did love him in- 
tensely ; but that’s all over now. For four 
years* I have passed an intolerable exist- 
ence, — I, who am so fond of pleasure. 
If Noel doesn’t leave me, I shall have to 
leave him. I am tired of having a lover 
who blushes for me and despises me.” 

“ If he despises you, my dear, he scarce- 
ly shows it here,” replied Pere Tabaret, 
casting a significant glance about the room. 

“ You mean,” said the girl, raising her- 
self, “ that he spends a great deal for me. 
It is true. He pretends that he has ruined 
himself for me; it’s very possible. But 
what’s that to me ? I am not a hard- 
hearted woman ; and I would much prefer 
less money and more love. My follies have 
been inspired by anger and ennui. Mon- 
sieur Gerdy treats me like a mercenary 
woman ; and so I act like one. We are 
quits.” 


148 


T11E WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ You know well that he worships you.” 

“ He ? I tell you he is ashamed of me. 
He hides me like a secret crime. You 
are the first of his friends to whom I have 
ever spoken. Ask him if he has ever rid- 
den out with me? It would seem as 
though my very touch was dishonor. 
Why, no longer ago than last Tuesday, we 
went to the theatre ! He hired an entire 
box ; but do you think that he sat in it with 
me ? Not at all. He slipped away ; and I 
saw no more of him the whole evening.” 

“How? Were you obliged to return 
home alone ? ” 

“No. At the end of the play, nearly 
midnight, he d.eigned to reappear. Then we 
went to the opera ball, where we took sup- 
per. Ah, that was charming ! But, at 
the ball, he didn’t dare to let down his 
hood, or to take off his mask. At supper, 

I had to treat him like a perfect stranger, 
for fear of his friends.” 

This, then, was the alibi prepared in 
case of trouble. 

Less wrapped up in her own passion, 
Juliette would have noticed Pere Tabaret’s 
looks, and would certainly have checked 
herself. 

He was perfectly livid, and trembled 
like a leaf. 

“ Well,” he said, making a superhuman 
effort to articulate his words, “ the supper, 

I suppose, Was none the less gay for 
that.” 

“ Gay ! ” repeated the girl, shrugging 
her shoulders ; “ you would scarcely have 
known him. If you ever ask him to din- 
ner, take good care how you allow him to 
drink. He made as merry over his wine 
as a drunken sailor. At the second bottle, 
he was as light headed as a cork ; so much 
so, that he lost every thing he had, — his 
coat, purse, umbrella, cigar-case — ” 

Pere Tabaret hadn’t strength enough to 
listen longer ; he jumped to his feet like a 
furious madman. 

“ Miserable wretch 1 ” he cried to him- 
self, “ infamous scoundrel ! It is he ; but 
I have him.” 

And he k rushed out, leaving Juliette so 
terrified that she called her maid. 

“ Child,” said she, “ I have made some 
dreadful bltfnder, have let some secret out. 
I know I have done wrong ; I feel it. That 
old fellow was no friend of Noel’s : he 
came to circumvent me, to lead me by the 
nose ; and he has done it. Without a 
doubt I have spoken against Noel. What 
could I have said ? I have thought care- 
fully ; but I can remember nothing : he 
must be warned though. I will write him 
a line, while you get a messenger.” 


Getting again into the hack, Pere Tab- 
aret hurried towards the prefecture of 
police. Noel an assassin ! His hate was 
now without bounds, as formerly had been 
his trusting love. He had been cruelly 
played with, unworthily duped, by the 
vilest, most criminal of men. He thirsted 
for vengeance ; he tried to think of some 
punishment which was not too small for the 
crime. 

“ For he has not only assassinated Clau- 
dine,” thought he, “ but he has so arranged 
the whole thing as to have an innocent 
man accused and condemned. And who 
knows that he did not kill his poor 
mother ? ” 

He regretted the abolition of torture, 
the refined cruelty of the middle ages, 
quartering, the stake, the wheel. 

The guillotine was too quick ; the con- 
demned man had scarcely time to feel the 
cold steel cutting through his muscles ; 
there is nothing but a single twitch of the 
neck. In trying to soften the pain of 
death, it had been made nowadays almost 
a pleasure. 

The certainty of confronting Noel, of 
delivering him up to justice, of taking ven- 
geance upon him, alone kept Tabaret up. 

“ It is clear,” lie muttered, “ that the 
wretch forgot those things at the railway, 
in his haste to rejoin his mistress. Have t&ey 
yet been called for? If he has had the 
prudence to go boldly, and get them under 
a false name, I can see no further proofs 
against him. The testimony of this Mad- 
ame Chaffour won’t be on my side. The 
hussy, seeing her lover in danger, will 
deny what she has just told me : she will 
assert that Noel quitted her after ten 
o’clock. But he can’t have dared to go to 
the railway again.” 

About the middle of the Rue Richelieu, 
Pere Tabaret was taken with a sudden 
faintness. 

“ I am going to have an . attack, I fear,” 
thought he. “ If I die, Noel will escape 
me, and will still be my heir. A man 
ought always to keep his will constantly 
with him, to destroy it, if he wishes.” 

Twenty paces on, he saw a doctor’s 
sign : he stopped the hack, and rushed 
into the house. 

He was so excited, so beside himself, his 
eyes had such an expression of wildness, 
that the doctor was almost afraid of this 
remarkable patient, who cried to him 
hoarsely, — 

“ Bleed me 1 ” 

The doctor ventured an objection ; but 
already the old fellow had taken off his 
| coat, and drawn up one of his shirt-sleeves. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


149 


“ Bleed me ! ” he repeated. “ Do you 
want me to die ? ” 

The doctor finally obeyed; and Pere 
Tabaret came out quieted and relieved. 

An hour later, armed with the necessary 
power, and accompanied by a policeman, 
he proceeded to the department of lost 
articles at the railway, to make the neces- 
sary search. 

His investigations resulted as he had 
expected. 

He found that, on the evening of Shrove 
Tuesday, there had been found in one of 
the second class compartments of train forty- 
five a great coat and an umbrella. 

They showed him the articles; and he 
recognized them as Noel’s. 

In one of the pockets of the great coat, 
he found a pair of pearl gray gloves, torn 
and soiled, as well as a return ticket from 
Chatou, which had not been used. 

In hurrying on, in pursuit of the truth, 
Pere Tabaret knew only too well what this 
meant. 

His conviction, unwillingly formed when 
Clergeot disclosed to him Noel’s follies, had 
been since strengthened by a thousand 
circumstances. At Juliette’s house, he 
became positively sure ; and yet, at this 
last moment, when doubt became abso- 
lutely impossible, in seeing the evidence 
cleared up, he was depressed. 

“On,”he cried at last. “Now to arrest him.” 

And, without losing an instant, he has- 
tened to the palais de justice, where he 
hoped to find the judge of inquiry. 

Notwithstanding the lateness of the 
hour, Daburon had not yet left his office. 

He was conversing with the Count de 
Commarin, giving him the facts revealed 
by Pierre Lerouge, whom the count had 
believed dead many years since. 

Pere Tabaret entered like a whirlwind, 
too distracted to notice the presence of a 
stranger. 

“Monsieur,” he cried, stuttering with 
rage, “ we have got the real assassin ! It 
is he, my adoped son, my heir, Noel ! ” 

“ Noel ! ” repeated Daburon, rising. 
And then, in a lower tone, he added, “ I 
had suspected it.” 

“ A warrant is necessary at once,” con- 
tinued the old detective. “ If we lose a 
minute, he will slip through our finders. 
He will know that he is discovered, if his 
mistress has time to warn him of my visit. 
Hasten, monsieur, hasten 1 ” 

Daburon opened his lips to ask an ex- 
planation ; but the old detective con- 
tinued, — 

“ That is not yet all. An innocent man, 
Albert, is still in prison.” 


“ He will not be so an hour longer,” re- 
plied the magistrate ; “ a moment before 
your arrival, I had made arrangements to 
have him released. But about this 
other — ” 

Neither Pere Tabaret nor Daburon had 
noticed the disappearance of the Count de 
Commarin. 

At Noel’s name, he had gained the door 
quietly, and rushed into the gallery. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Noel had promised to use every effort, 
— to attempt even the impossible, — to ob- 
tain Albert’s release. 

He in fact did interview some members 
of the bar, but managed to be repulsed 
everywhere. 

At four o’clock, he called at the Count 
de Commarin’s house, to inform the count 
of the slight success he had met. 

“ The count has gone out,” said Denis ; 
“ but if you will take the f trouble to 
wait — ” 

“ I will wait,” answered Noel. 

“ Then,” replied the valet, “ will you 
please follow me ? I have the count’s orders 
to take you into his study.” 

This trust gave Noel an idea of his new 
power. He was at home. Henceforth, in 
this magnificent house, he was to be mas- 
ter, — the heir ! His eye, which ran over 
the entire room, was caught by a genealo- 
gical table, hanging above the mantel. He 
went up to it, and read it. 

It was a page, and one of the most illus- 
trious, taken from the golden book of 
French nobility. Every name which has a 
place in our history was there. The Com- 
marins had mingled their blood with all 
the great houses; two of them had even 
married daughters of the reigning family. 
A warm glow of pride filled the advocate’s 
heart ; his pulse beat quicker : he raised 
his head haughtily, as he muttered, — 

“ Viscount de Commarin 1 ” 

The door opened. He turned, and saw 
the count entering. 

At once Noel bowed respectfully. He 
was petrified by the look of hatred, anger, 
contempt, on his father’s face. 

A shiver ran through his veins. His 
teeth chattered ; he saw that he was lost. 

“ Wretch ! ” cried the count. 

And, dreading his own violence, the old 
gentleman threw his cane into a corner. 

He was unwilling to strike his son ; he 
considered him unworthy of being struck 
by his hands. 


150 


THE WIDOW LEKOUGE. 


After he had entered, there was a mo- 
ment of mortal silence, which seemed to 
them both a century. 

Both at the same time were filled with 
bitter thoughts, which would require a vol- 
ume to transcribe. 

Noel took courage, and spoke first. 

“ Monsieur,” he began. 

“ Silence ! ” exclaimed the count hoarse- 
ly; “keep silent. It may be — heaven 
forgive me ! — that you are my son ! Alas, 
I cannot doubt it now ! Wretch ! you 
knew well that you were Madame Gerdy’s 
son. Infamous creature 1 you have not 
only committed this murder, but you have 
caused an innocent man to be charged 
with your crime. Parricide 1 you have 
also killed your mother.” 

The advocate attempted to stammer forth 
a protest. 

“You killed her,” continued the count 
with increased energy, “ if not by poison, 
at least by your crimes. I understand all 
now : she was not delirious this morning. 
But you knew well what she would say. 
You were listening ; and, if you dared to 
enter at the moment when one word would 
have destroyed you, it was because you 
calculated the effect of your presence. It 
was to you that she spoke that last word, 

‘ Assassin 1 ’ ” 

Little by little, Noel had retired to the 
end of the room ; and he stood leaning 
against the wall, his head thrown back, his 
hair on end, his eye haggard. A convulsive 
shudder seized him. His face betrayed a 
terror most horrible to see, — the terror of 
a discovered criminal. 

“ I know all, you see,” continued the > 
count ; “ and I am not alone in that knowl- 
edge. At this moment, a warrant of arrest 
is issued against you.” 

A cry of rage, like a hollow rattle, burst 
from the advocate. His lips, which were 
hanging through terror, now grew firm. 
Overwhelmed in the very midst of his tri- 
umph, he struggled against his fright. He 
recovered himself with a look of defi- 
ance. • 

M. de Commarin, without seeming to 
pay any attention to Noel, approached a 
desk, and opened a drawer. 

“ My duty,” said he, “ would be to leave 
you to the hangman who awaits you ; but 
I remember that I have the misfortune to 
be your father. Sit down ; write and sign 
a confession of your crime. You will then 
fin^ fire-arms in that drawer. May heaven 
forgive you 1 ” 

The old gentleman moved towards the 
door. Noel stopped him ; and drawing at 
the same time a revolver from his pocket, — 


“ Your fire-arms are needless, monsieur,” 
he said : “ my precautions, you see, are 
taken ; thev will never take me alive. 
But — ” 

“ But ? ” repeated the count harshly. 

“ I must tell you, monsieur,” continued 
the advocate coldly, “ that I do not see 
fit to kill myself, — at least, at present.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried M. de Commarin in dis- 
gust, “ you are a coward ! ” 

“ No, monsieur, not a coward ; butrl will 
not give in until I am sure that every open- 
ing is closed against me, — that I cannot 
save myself.” 

“Miserable wretch!” said the count, 
threatening ; “ then I must do it.” 

He moved towards the drawer; but 
Noel closed it with a slam. 

“ Listen to me, monsieur,” said the ad- 
vocate in that hoarse, quick tone, which 
imminent danger gives a man ; “ do not 
waste in vain words the few moments’ re- 
spite left me. I have committed a crime, 
it is true, and I do not attempt to justify 
it ; but who laid the foundation of it, if not 
yourself? Now, you do me the favor of of- 
fering me a pistol. Thanks. I must de- 
cline it. This generosity is not through 
any regard for me : you only wish to avoid 
the scandal of my trial, and the disgrace 
which cannot fail to reflect upon your name.” 

The count was about to reply. 

“ Give me leave,” interrupted Noel im- 
periously. “ I decline killing myself ; I 
wish to save my life, if possible. Supply 
me with the means of escape ; and I prom- 
ise you that I will die before I am captured. 
I say, supply me with means ; for I have 
not twenty francs to my name. My last 
bank note was burnt the day when — you 
understand me. There isn’t enough in 
my mother’s house to give her a decent 
burial. Then, some money.” 

“ Never ! ” 

“ Then I will deliver myself up ; and 
you will see the effect upon the name you 
hold so dear ! ” 

The count, mad with rage, jumped to 
his desk for a pistol. Noel placed him- 
self before him. 

“ Oh, do not struggle !” said he coldly ; 
“ I am the strongest.” 

M. de Commarin recoiled. 

By thus speaking of the trial, of scandal, 
disgrace, the advocate had made an im- 
pression upon him. 

For a moment hesitating between love 
for his name and his burning desire to see 
this wretch punished, the old gentleman 
stood undecided. 

Finally his feeling for his position tri- 
umphed. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


151 


“ Let us end this,” he said in a voice trem- 
bling, and filled with the utmost contempt ; 
“ let us end this disgraceful scene. What 
do you ask ? ” 

“ I have told you, money, — all that you 
have here. But decide quickly.” 

On Saturday the count had drawn from 
his bankers the sum he had set aside for 
fitting up the rooms of him whom he thought 
his legitimate child. 

“ I have eighty thousand francs here,” he 
replied. 

“ That’s very little,” said the advocate ; 
“ but give them to me. I had counted 
upon five hundred thousand francs from 
you. If I succeed in escaping my pursu- 
ers, you must hold at my disposal the bal- 
ance, four hundred and twenty thousand 
francs. Will you pledge yourself to give 
them to me at the first demand ? I will 
find some means of sending for them, with- 
out risk to myself. At that price, you need 
never fear seeing me again.” 

For his only reply, the count opened a 
little iron chest imbedded in the wall, and 
drew out a roll of bank notes, which he 
threw at Noel's feet. 

A gleam of anger flashed in the advo- 
cate’s eyes, as he took one step towards his 
father. 

“ Oh, do not push me too far ! ” he said 
threateningly ; “ people who, like me, hav- 
ing nothing to lose, are dangerous. I may 
free myselfi and — ” 

He bent down, however, and picked up 
the notes. 

“ Will you give me your word,” he con- 
tinued, “ to let me have the rest ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then I am going. Do not fear. I 
will be faithful to our compact : they shall 
not take me alive. Adieu ! my father : you 
are the true criminal ; but you will escape 
punishment. Ah, heaven is not just! I 
curse you.” 

When, an hour later, the servants entered 
the count’s study, they found him stretched 
on the floor, his face against the carpet, 
with scarcely a sign of life. 

But Noel left the house, and staggered 
up the Rue Universite. 

It seemed to him that the pavement 
reeled beneath his feet, and that every 
thing about him was turning. 

But, at the same time, strange to relate, 
he felt an incredible relief, almost delight. . 

Honest Balan’s theory was correct. 

It was ended. All was over; he was 
ruined. No more anguish now, no more 
useless fright and foolish terrors, no more 
dissembling, struggling. Henceforth there 
was nothing more to fear. His horrible 


role played to the bitter end, he could lay 
aside his mask and breathe freely. 

An irresistible weariness succeeding to 
the highly-wrought passion which had sus- 
tained him before the count destroyed his 
impudent arrogance. All the springs of 
his organization, stretched for a week be- 
yond their limits, now relaxed and gave 
way. The fever which for the last eight 
days had kept him up failed him now ; 
and, with the weariness, he felt an impera- 
tive need of rest. He experienced a great 
void, an utter indifference for every thing. 

His insensibility bore a striking resem- 
blance to that felt by people afflicted with 
sea-sickness ; who care tor nothing, whom 
no sensations are capable of moving, who 
have neither strength nor courage to think, 
and who could not be aroused from their 
lethargy by the presence of any great 
danger, not even of death itself. 

They might have arrested him then ; 
and he would never have thought of re- 
sisting, nor of defending himself : he could 
not have taken a step to hide, to fly, to 
save himself in any way. 

For a moment he had serious thoughts 
of giving himself up as a prisoner, in or- 
der to secure peace, to gain quiet, to free 
himself from this anxiety about his safe- 
ty- 

But he struggled against this dull stupor. 
The reaction came, shaking off* this weak- 
ness of mind and body. , 

The consciousness of his position, of his 
danger, came to him. He foresaw, with 
horror, the scaffold, as one sees the abyss 
by the flashes of lightning. 

“ I must save my life,” he thought ; “ but 
how ? ” 

That mortal terror which deprives the 
assassin of even ordinary common sense 
seized him. 

He looked eagerly about him, and 
thought he noticed three or four passers by 
look at him curiously. His terror in- 
creased. 

He began running in the direction of 
the Latin quarter without purpose, with- 
out aim, running for the sake of running, to 
escape himself, — like Crime, as represen- 
ted by the painter, fleeing under the lashes 
of the furies. 

He very soon stopped, however, seeing 
that this extraordinary procedure attracted 
attention. 

It semed that every one was on the point 
of denouncing him as the murderer : he 
thought he read contempt and horror upon 
every face, suspicion in every eye. 

He walked along, instinctively repeat- 
ing to himself, — 


152 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


“ I must follow some plan ! ” 

But, in this horrible excitement, he was 
incapable of seeing any thing, of think- 
ing, planning, determining, deciding. 

When he first thought of the crime, he 
had said to himself, “ I may be discovered.” 
And, with this in sight, he had perfected 
a plan which should put him bwyond all 
fear of pursuit. He would do this and 
that ; he would have recourse to this ruse, 
he would take that precaution. Useless 
forethought. Nothing of this plan seemed 
feasible now. They were seeking for him ; 
and he could think of no place in the 
whole world where he would feel perfectly 
safe. 

He was near the Odeon, when a thought 
quicker than a flash of lightning lit up the 
darkness of his brain. 

He thought that they were doubtless al- 
ready in pursuit of him ; his description 
would be given everywhere ; his white 
cravat and well-dressed whiskers would be- 
tray him as surely as though he carried a 
placard. 

Seeing a barber’s shop, he went to the 
door ; but, while turning the knob, he grew 
frightened. 

They would think it singular that he 
wanted his beard shaved; and if they 
should question him. 

He passed on. 

He saw another barber’s shop ; and the 
same doubts prevented his entering. 

Gradually night came on ; and, with the 
darkness, Noel seemed to recover his confi- 
dence and boldness. 

After this great shipwreck in port, hope 
arose again to the surface. Why could he 
not save himself? 

There had been many just such cases. 
He would go to a foreign country, change 
his name, begin life over again, become a 
new man entirely. He had the money ; and 
that was the principal thing. 

And, besides, when these eighty thou- 
sand francs were spent, he had the cer- 
tainty of receiving, on his first request, 
five or six times as much more. 

He was already thinking of the disguise 
ihe should assume, and the frontier to 
which he should go, when a recollection of 
.Juliette crossed his heart like a hot iron. 

Was he going to escape without her, go 
away with the certainty of never seeing 
her again ? 

Should he fly, pursued by all the police 
fin the world, tracked like a deer, and she 
-.remain peaceably in Paris ? Impossible. 
For whom had he committed this crime ? 
For her. Who reaped the benefits of it ? 
She. Was it not just, then, that she 


should bear her share of the punish- 
ment ? 

“ She does not love me.” thought the ad- 
vocate with bitterness ; “ she never loved 
me. She would be delighted to be forever 
free from me. She will not regret me, now 
that I can be of no more use to her. An 
empty coffer is an unserviceable piece of 
furniture. Juliette is prudent ; she has 
managed to save a pretty little fortune. 
Grown rich at my expense, she will take 
some new lover. She will forget me : 
she will live happily ; while I — And I 
was going away without her.” 

The voice of prudence cried out to him, 
“ Wretched man ! to drag a woman with 
you, and such a woman, is but to draw at- 
tention upon you, to render flight impossi- 
ble, to give yourself up out of mere wan- 
tonness.” 

“ What of that ? ” replied passion. “ We 
will be saved, or we will perish together. 
If she does not love me, I love her. She 
is a necessity to me. She must come, 


But how to see Juliette, to speak with 
her, to persuade her. 

To go to her house would 'expose him 
too much. The police were doubtless 
there already. 

“ No,” thought Noel ; “ no one knows 
that she is my mistress. They won’t find 
it out for two or three days ; and, besides, 
it would be more dangerous still to write.” 

He took a carriage from the stand not 
far from the square L’Observatoire, and 
a low tone told the driver the fatal 
number of the house in the Rue Provence. 

Stretched on the cushions of the car- 
riage, lulled by its monotonous rattle, Noel 
gave no thought to the future ; he did not 
even think over what he should say to Ju- 
liette. No. Involuntarily he passed in 
review the events which had brought on 
and hastened the catastrophe, like a man 
who, near his death, reviews the tragedy or 
comedy of his life. 

He thought over the past month, day 
by d*iy. 

Ruined, without expedients, without re- 
sources, he had determined at all hazards 
to procure money, to still keep Madame 
Juliette; when one day chance made him 
master of the correspondence of the Count 
de Commarin, — not only the letters read 
to Pere Tabaret, and shown to Albert, but 
also those, which, written by the count 
when he believed the substitution accom- 
plished, plainly established the fact. 

The reading of these gave him an hour 
of mad delight. 

He believed himself the legitimate son ; 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


153 


but soon his mother undeceived him, told 
him the truth, proved it to him by many 
letters from the Widow Lerouge, called 
Claudine to witness it, and denxmstrated 
it by the scar he bore. 

But a drowning man never chooses what 
branch he will draw himself out by. He 
takes the first that comes. Noel resolved 
to make use of these letters. 

He attempted to use his ascendancy over 
his mother, to induce her to lea^e the 
count in his ignorance, so that he might 
thus blackmail him. But Madame Gerdy 
repulsed this proposition with horror. 

Then the advocate made a confession of 
all his follies, laid bare his financial condi- 
tion, showed himself in his true light, sunk 
in debt ; and he begged his mother to have 
recourse to M. de Commarin. 

This also she refused ; and prayers and 
threats availed nothing against her resolu- 
tion. For five days, there was a great 
struggle between mother and son, in which 
the advocate was finally conquered. 

It was then that idea of murdering Clau- 
dine occurred to him. 

The unhappy woman had been no more 
frank with Madame Gerdy than with 
others; and Noel thought her a widow. 
Her testimony suppressed, therefore, who 
else stood in his way ? 

Madame Gerdy, and perhaps the count. 

He feared them but little. 

If Madame Gerdy spoke, he could always 
reply, “ You have stolen my name for your 
son : and you will do any thing in the 
world to preserve it for him.” But how to 
do away with Claudine without danger ? 

After long reflection, the advocate 
thought of a diabolical stratagem. 

He would burn all the count’s letters es- 
tablishing the substitution, and preserve 
only those rendering it probable. 

These last he would show to Albert, 
feeling sure, that, if Justice ever inquired 
into the matter, it would naturally suspect 
him who appeared to have so much interest 
in Claudine’s death. 

Not that he really thought of attaching 
the crime upon Albert ; it was simply a 
precaution. He counted upon so arranging 
matters that the police would lose their 
trouble, in the pursuit of an imaginary 
criminal. 

Nor did he think of ousting the Vis- 
count de Commarin, and putting himself 
in his place. 

• His plan was simply, the crime once 
committed, he would wait; things would 
take their own course. He would negoti- 
ate, he would compromise, at the price of 
a fortune. 


He felt sure of his mother’s silence, pro- 
vided she never suspected him of the as- 
sassination. 

His plans laid, he decided to strike the 
fatal blow on Shrove Tuesday. 

To neglect no precaution, he would that 
evening himself take Juliette to the 
theatre, and afterwards to the opera ball. 
He would thus secure, in case things went 
wrong, an unanswerable alibi. 

The loss of his great coat troubled him 
for a moment ; but, upon reflection, he re- 
assured himself, saying, — 

“ Pshaw ! who will ever know ? ” 

Every thing had resulted in accordance 
with his calculations. He thought that 
now it was but a matter of patience. 

But, when Madame Gerdy read the 
story of the murder, the unhappy woman 
divined her son’s work ; and, in" the first 
transports of her grief, she declared that 
she would denounce him. 

He was terrified. A mad fear of his 
mother possessed him. One word from 
her might destroy him. Putting a bold 
face on it, however, he took the chances, 
staking his all. 

To put the police on Albert’s track was 
to guarantee his own safety, to insure to 
himself, in case of success, the name and 
fortune of the Count de Commarin. 

Circumstances, as well, as his own terror, 
had increased his boldness and his acute- 
ness. 

Pere Tabaret’s visit occurred just 
then. 

Noel knew of his connection with the 
police, and knew that the old fellow would 
make a most valuable confidant. 

So long as Madame Gordy lived, Noel 
trembled. The fever was untrustworthy, 
and might betray him. But, when she had 
breathed her last, he believed himself safe. 
He thought it all over : he could see no ob- 
stacle in his way ; he had triumphed. 

And now all was discovered, just as he 
was about to reap the benefits. But how ? 
by whom ? What fatality had unearthed 
a secret which he had believed buried 
with Madame Gerdy ? 

But what boots it, when one is at the 
bottom of an abyss, to know what stone 
had given way, to ask by what descent he 
had fallen ? 

The hack stopped in the Rue Provence. 

Noel leaned out of the door, searching 
the neighborhood, throwing a glance into 
the depths of the porter’s lodge. % 

Seeing no one, he paid his fare through 
the front window, before getting out of the 
carriage, and, crossing the pavement with 
a bound, he leaped up the stairway. 


154 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


Charlotte, at sight of him, gave a shout 
of joy. 

“ You are here ! ” she cried. “ Ah, 
madame has been expecting you with the 
greatest impatience ! She is very anxious.” 

Juliette expecting him ! Juliette anx- 
ious ! 

The advocate did not stop to ask ques- 
tions. On reaching this spot, he seemed 
suddenly to recover his coolness. He 
could understand his imprudence ; he knew 
the exact value of every instant. 

“ If any one rings,” said he to Charlotte, 
“ don’t let them in. No matter what they 
do or say, don’t let them in.” 

On hearing Noel’s voice, Juliette ran out 
to meet him. He pushed her gruffly into 
the salon, and followed, closing the door. 

There for the first time she saw his face. 

He was so changed ; his look was so hag- 
gard that she could not keep from crying 
out, — 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

Noel made no reply; he advanced 
towards and took her hand. 

“Juliette,” he demanded in a hollow 
voice, fastening his flashing eyes upon her, 
— “Juliette, be sincere; do you love 
me ? ” 

She instinctively felt that something 
dreadful had occurred : ' she seemed to 
breathe an atmosphere of evil ; but she, 
as usual, affected indifference. 

“ You ill-natured fellow,” she replied, 
pouting her lips most provokingly, “ do 
you deserve — ” 

“ Oh, enough ! ” broke in Noel, stamping 
his feet fiercely. “ Answer me,” he contin- 
ued, bruising her pretty hands in his grasp, 
“ yes, or no, — do you love me ? ” 

A hundred times had she played with 
her lover’s anger, delighting to excite him 
into a fury, to enjoy the pleasure of ap- 
peasing him with a word ; but she had 
never seen him like this before. 

She had wronged him greatly ; and she 
dared not complain of this his first harsh- 
ness. 

“ Yes, I love you,” she stammered, “ do 
you not know it ? ” 

“ Why ? ” replied the advocate, releasing 
her hands ; “ why ? Because, if you love me 
you must prove it ; if you love me, you 
must follow me at once, — abandon every 
thing. Come, fly with me. Time 
presses — ” 

The young girl was terrified. 

“ Great heavens ! what has happened ? ” 

“ Nothing, except that I have loved you 
too much, Juliette. When I found I had 
no more money for your luxury, your ca- 
prices, I became wild. To procure money, 


I, — I committed a crime, — a crime; do 
you understand ? They are pursuing me 
now. I must fly : will you follow me ? ” 

Juliette’s eyes grew wide with astonish- 
ment ; but she doubted Noel. 

“ A crime ? You ? ” she began. 

“ Yes, me ! Would you know the truth ? 

I have committed murder, an assassination. 
But it was all for you.” 

The advocate felt that Juliette would 
certainly recoil from him in horror. He 
expected that terror which a murderer in- 
spires. He was resigned to it in advance. 
He thought that she would fly from him ; 
perhaps there would be a scene. She 
might, who knows, have hysterics ; might 
cry out, call for succor, for help, for aid. 
He was wrong. 

With a bound, Juliette flew to him, 
throwing herself upon him, her arms about 
his neck, and embraced him as she had 
never embraced him before. 

“ Yes, I do love you ! ” she cried. “ Yes, 
you have committed a crime for my sake, 
because you loved me. You have a heart. 

I never really knew you before ! ” 

It had cost him dear to inspire this pas- . 
sion in Madame Juliette; but Noel never 
thought of that. 

He experienced a moment of intense de- 
light : nothing appeared hopeless to him 
now. 

But he had the presence of mind to free 
himself from her embrace. 

“ Let us go,” he said ; “ the one great 
danger is, that I do not know from whence 
the attack comes. How they have discov- 
ered the truth is still a mystery to me.” 

Juliette remembered her alarming visitor 
of the afternoon ; she understood it all. 

“ Oh, what*a wretched woman I am!” 
she cried, wringing her hands in despair ; 

“ it is I who have betrayed you. It oc- 
curred on Tuesday, did it not ? ” 

“ Yes, Tuesday.” 

“ Ah, then I have told all, without a 
doubt, to your friend, the old man I sup- 
posed you had sent, Tabaret ! ” 

“ Has Tabaret been here ? ” 

“ Yes ; just a little .while ago.” 

“ Come, then,” cried Noel, “ quickly ; it’s 
a miracle that he hasn’t been back.” 

He took her arm, to hurry her away; 
but she nimbly released herself. 

“ Wait,” said she. “ I have some money, 
some jewels. I will take them.” 

“ It is useless. Leave every thing behind. 

I have a fortune, Juliette ; let us fly ! ” 

She had already opened, her jewel box, 
and was throwing every thing of value 
that she possessed pell mell into a little 
travelling bag. 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


155 


“ Ah, you are ruining me,” cried Noel, 
“ you are ruining me ! ” 

He spoke thus ; but his heart was over- 
flowing with joy. 

“ What sublime devotion ! She loves me 
truly,” he said to himself ; “ for me, she re- 
nounces this happy life without hesitation ; 
lor me, she sacrifices all ! ” 

Juliette had finished her preparations, and 
was quietly tying on her bonnet, when the 
door-bell rang. 

“ They are here ! ” cried Noel, becoming, 
if possible, even more livid. 

They stood as immovable as two statues ; 
great drops of perspiration on their fore- 
heads, their eyes dilated, listening breath- 
lessly. 

A second ring was heard, then a third. 

Charlotte appeared, walking on tip-toe. 

“ There are a great many at the door,” 
she whispered ; “ I heard them talking to- 
gether.” 

Growing tired of ringing, they began 
pounding. A voice reached the salon ; 
they distinguished but the one word, “ law ! ” 

“ No hope ! ” murmured Noel. 

“ Don’t despair,” cried Juliette ; “ the 
servant’s stairway ! ” 

“ They will scarcely leave that un- 
guarded.” 

Then Juliette became depressed, terri- 
fied. 

She was surprised by heavy steps on the 
stairway, made by some one endeavoring 
to walk softly. 

“ There must be some escape 1 ” she 
cried fiercely. 

“ Yes,” replied Noel, “ one way. I have 
given my word. They will pick the lock. 
Bolt all the doors, and make them break 
them down : it will gain timg for me.” 

Juliette and Charlotte sprang forward to 
do this. Noel, leaning against the mantel, 
took out his revolver, and placed it against 
his breast. 

But Juliette, who had returned, perceiv- 
ing the movement, threw herself headlong 
upon her lover, to prevent his purpose, 
but so violently that the pistol was dis- 
charged. The shot took effect, the ball 
passing through Noel’s stomach. He gave 
a terrible cry. 

Juliette had made his death a terrible 
punishment; she had only prolonged his 
agony. 

He staggered, but did not fall, support- 
ing himself by the mantel, while the blood 
flowed copiously. 

Juliette clung to him, trying to wrest the 
pistol from him. 

“ You shall not kill yourself,” she 
cried, “you shall not. You are mine; I 


love you. Let them come. What can 
they do to you ? If they imprison you, 
you can escape. I will aid you : we will 
bribe the jailors. Come. We will live so 
happily, no matter where, far off in Amer- 
ica where no one knows us ! ” 

The outside door had yielded ; they were 
now at work at the door of the ante-cham- 
ber. 

“ Hush ! ” murmured Noel ; “ they must 
not take me alive ! ” 

And, with one last effort, triumphing 
over his dreadful agony, he released him- 
self, and pushed Juliette away, who fell 
back on a near sofa. 

Then, seizing the revolver, he applied it 
anew to the place where he felt his heart 
beating, pulled the trigger, and rolled to 
the floor. 

It was full time ; for the police at that 
moment burst open the door. 

The first thought of the detectives was, 
that Noel, before shooting himself, had shot 
his mistress. 

They knew of cases where people had 
romantically desired to quit this world to- 
gether ; and had they not heard two shots ? 
But Juliette was already on her feet again. 

“ A doctor,” she cried, “ a doctor ! He 
cannot be dead ! ” 

One man ran out ; while the others, un- 
der the direction of Pere Tabaret, carried 
the advocate’s body, and laid it on Madame 
Juliette’s bed. 

“ He cannot live ! ” murmured the old 
man, whose anger left him at the sight. “ I 
loved him as though he were my child ; his 
name is still on my will ! ” 

Pere Tabaret stopped. Noel uttered a 
groan, and opened his eyes. 

“ You see that he will live ! ” cried Juli- 
ette. 

The advocate shook his head feebly, 
and, for a moment, he tossed himself pain- 
fully on the bed, passing his right hand 
first under his coat, and then under his 
pillow. 

He turned himself half-way towards the 
wall, and then back again. 

Upon a sign, easily understood, they 
placed another pillow beneath his head. 

Then, in a broken, stifled voice, he spoke 
a few words. 

“ I am the assassin,” he said* “ Write. 
I will sign it ; it will free Albert. I owe 
him that at least.” 

While they were writing, he drew Juli- 
ette to him. 

“ My fortune is beneath the pillow,” he 
whispered. “ I give it all to you.” 

A flow of blood burst from his mouth ; 
and they thought he was dying. 


156 


THE WIDOW LEROUGE. 


But lie still had strength enough to sign 
the confession, and to launch a joke at Pere 
Tabarct. 

All, ha, old fellow ! ” he said, “ so you 
are a detective, eh ? It must be great fun 
to trap one’s friends ! Ah, I have had a 
fine game ; but, with three women in the 
play, you are always sure to lose.” 

He felj back in, agony ; and, when the 
doctor arrived, he could only announce the 
death of Maitre Noel Gerdy, advocate. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Some months later, one evening, at old 
Mademoiselle Goello’s, the Marquise d’Ar- 
langes, looking ten years younger than when 
we saw her last, was giving her dowager 
friends an account of the wedding of her 
grand-daughter Claire, who had married the 
Viscount Albert de Commarin. 

“ The marriage,” said she, “ took place 
on our estate in Normandy, without any 
flourish of trumpets. My son-in-law wished 
it ; but I disapproved heartily. *The noise 
about the mistake of which he had been 
the victim would have given eclat to the 
wedding. That was my opinion ; and I 
made no effort to conceal it. Pshaw ! the 
boy is as stubborn as his father, which is 
saying a good deal : he persisted in his 
course ; and my shameless grandchild, 
obedient to her future husband, took her 
stand against me. And yet I defy any one 
to find to-day a single individual with 
courage enough to confess that he ever for 
an instant doubted Albert’s innocence. I 
have left the young people in all the happi- 
ness of the honeymoon, billing and cooing 
like a pair of turtle-doves. It must be con- 
fessed that they have paid dearly for their 
happiness. May they be happy, and may 
they have lots of children ! for they will 
find no difficulty in providing for them. 
For, do you know, for the first time in his 


life, and probably for the last, the count 
has behaved like an angel ! He has settled 
all his fortune on his son absolutely. He 
intends living alone at one of his country- 
seats. I don’t think the old man is quite 
himself. I am not sure that he has entirely 
recovered his head since that attack ; but 
my grandchild is nicely settled. I know 
what it has cost me, and how economical I 
shall have to be ; but I despise parents who 
hesitate at any pecuniary sacrifice, when the 
happiness of their children is at stake.” 

The marquise forgot, however, to state 
that, eight days before the wedding, Albert 
had freed her from a very embarrassing situ- 
ation, and had discharged a very considera- 
ble amount of her debts. 

Since then, she had borrowed from him 
only nine thousand francs ; but she intended 
confessing to him some day how much she 
was annoyed by an upholsterer, by her 
dressmaker, by three linen drapers, and by 
five or six other tradesmen. 

Ah, well, she was a worthy woman ; she 
never said any evil about her son-in-law ! 

Taking: refugee in Poitou, after sending 
in his resignation, Daburon sought rest and 
forgetfulness. His friends, however, do not 
despair of some time inducing him to 
marry. 

Madame Juliette was entirely consoled. 
The eighty thousand francs hidden by 
Noel under the pillows were not taken 
from her. She had much more beside, as 
it was not long before the sale of her mag- 
nificently furnished apartments was an- 
nounced. 

Pere Tabaret was alone indelibly im- 
pressed. After having believed in the in- 
fallibility of justice, he now saw no errors 
so great as judicial ones. 

The old amateur detective doubted the 
existence of crime, and believed that the 
evidence of one’s senses proved nothing. 
He circulated a petition for the abolition 
of capital punishment, and organized a 
society for aiding the poor and innocent 
accused. 


FINIS. 


MRS. LEONOWENS’S BOOKS. 


THE ENGLISH GOVERNESS AT THE SIAMESE COURT. 

BEING 

Recollections of Six Years in the Royal Palace at Bangkok. 

By Anna Harriette Leonowens. 

With 16 full-page Illustrations, from Photographs presented to the Author by the 

King of Siam. 1vol. Small Svo. $3.00. 


“ A series or graphic sketches, which at the same time throw great light on a condition of society to which there is 
no parallel in Western civilization, and which afford a fruitful theme for reflection to the student of the various phases 
of human nature. Her book carries every internal sign of acute and faithful observation, she writes in an agreeabe 
style, presenting a narrative that, in addition to the charm of personal interest, supplies a fund of original and valua- 
ble information on a country which lies beyond the usual range of foreign travel.” — New York Tribune. 

“ As characterizing the volume before us, however, the word ‘ freshness ’ is utterly inadequate, for the book is a rev- 
elation, — the lifting of a curtain which has hitherto hidden from our view a peculiar and interesting people It is not 
an ordinary traveller's record of facts and impressions gathered haphazard, and not always verified : it is the matured 
and carefully arranged result of observation and experience during the author's six years’ residence at the court of 
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and its positive value as a disclosure of the semi-civilization of a strange people, we must pronounce it the most strik- 
ing book of its kind that has been published in a long time.” — The Literary World. 

“ * The English Governess at the Court of Siam,’ portions of which have appeared in the ‘ Atlantic,’ is one of the 
most remarkable an ; interesting books of the day. The author, Mrs. Leonowens, is a lady of extraordinary courage, 
and writes in a graphic style which brings the strange life of the palace and kingdom before us in the most vivid 
fashion. No romance can be more fascinating than her description of the manners of this remote and but little known 
country. Especially interesting is the picture she gives of Buddhism with its remarkable correspondences to Chris- 
tianity in doctrines and ceremonies.” — New Haven Palladium. 


THE ROMANCE OF THE HAREM. 

By Mrs. A. H. Leonowens, Author of “The English Governess at the Siamese Court.” 

Illustrated. 1 vol. 12mo. $3 00. 


“ When we began to feel that the poetry of the East was exhausted, Mrs. Leonowens opened for us the door into 
a land of romance as novel, as fascinating, and as splendid as any the Orient has ever shown us. In her ‘ English 
Governess at the Siamese Court’ we had a somewhat confused glimpse of it; but iu ‘The Romance of the Harem’ we 
have our curiosity fully satisfied.” — Hartford Courant. 

“A fresh, original, and fascinating book, giving us a true picture of life under circumstances and conditions 
wholly new and strange to the American reader. It is not ‘Romance ’ in the sense of fictitious and unreal, but in 
the sense of ‘Truth stranger than Fiction ’ ; a revelation from an unknown land, of ideas, customs, super.-titions, be- 
liefs, social and domestic relations almost impossible to the realism of Western life and thought. The author 4ias 
invested the narrative with all the charms of romance, without subtracting at all from its historical charaet-r ; giving 
us mostly only what passed under her own observation, and what formed a part of her own experience and action, in 
the marvellous drama. She has in fact added a new chapter to the annals of the human racs in what she has recorded 
of the government, court-life, laws, civil institutions, and populations of Siam.” — Universalist Quarterly. 

“Mrs Leonowens’s new book is as curious, as strange, as striking, as forcible, and as well done as its most enter- 
taining and popular predecessor, and gives revelations of the more hidden aspects of Oriental life not less remarkable, 
interesting, and suggestive. The skid of her pen is equal to the vigor of her judgment and the bravery of her soul, and 
that is saying a good deal.” — The Morning Star. 


*** For sale by Booksellers. Seat, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 


ENIGMAS OF LIFE. 

By W. R. GREG. 

1 vol. • • • 12mo. • • • $2.00. 



CONTENTS. — Realizable Ideals. — Malthus Notwithstanding — Non-Survival of the Fittest. — 
Limits and Directions of Human Development. — The Significance of Life. — De Profundis. — Else- 
where. — Appendix. 

“ What is to be the future of the human race ? What are the great obstacles in the way of progress ? What are 
the best means of surmounting these obstacles ? Such, in a rough statement, are some of the problems which are more 
or less present to Mr. Greg’s mind 5 and although he does not pretend to discuss them fully, he makes a great many 
observations about tbem, always expressed in a graceful style, frequently eloquent, and occasionally putting old subjects 
in a new light, and recording the results of a large amount of reading and inquiry.” — Saturday Review. 


“ It would be unfair to deny to these essays very great ability. The style is clear and vigorous ; the amount of 
thought and power displayed is considerable. Many of the remarks on our social condition, on the prevention of dis- 
ease, on the forces which act on population, are exceedingly valuable, and may be read with much advantage.” — 
The Illustrated Review (London). 


“ The whole set of Essays is at once the profoundest and the kindliest that has for some time tried to set people 
a-thinking about themselves and their destiny.” — Daily Telegraph (London). 


“ Mr. Greg is fertile, vigorous, and suggestive in his thinking ; he is a thoughtful, earnest, independent, and well- 
informed man, who really faces the problems he discusses.” — Boston Olobe. 


“ Full of writing of singular force and singular candor.” — The Spectator (London). 


MYTHS AND MYTH-MAKERS: 

OLD TALES AND SUPERSTITIONS INTERPRETED BY COMPARATIVE MYTHOLOOY. 

By JOHN FISKE. 

1 vol. . • . 12mo. ... $2.00. 


“ It is both an amusing and instructive book, evincing large research and giving its results in a lucid and attractive 
style. The author’s purpose is to present old tales and superstitions as interpreted by comparative mythology. The 
seven chapters of the volume relate respectively to ‘ The Origins of Folk Lore,’ 4 The Descent of Fire,’ ‘ Werewolves and 
Swan-Maidens,’ ‘ Light and Darkness,' 4 Myths of the Barbaric World,’ 4 Juventus Mundi,’ and ‘The Primeval Ghost 
World.’ The volume is so rich in matter that the task of selection is difficult.” — Boston Olobe. 


“ With the capacity for profound research and the power of critical consideration, he has a singular grace of style 
and an art of clear and simple statement which will not let the most indifferent refuse knowledge of the top’cs treated. 
In such a field as the discussion of old fables and superstitions affords, we have not only to admire Mr. Fiske for the 
charm of his manner, but for the justice and honesty of his method.” — The Atlantic Monthly 


“ Mr. Fiske is a master of perspicuous explanation. He has not laid claim to any originality in the present volume, 
but his most grudging critics must allow that his presentation of this intricate subject is simple and straightforward and 
at the same time scholarly.” — Mew York World. 


V For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD 8c CO, Boston. 



“ A genial exponent of the best sort of American thought .” — The Ex- 
aminer (London). 


BACKLOG STUDIES. 

By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER, 

AUTHOR OF “MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN,” “S A U N TERI N G S,” etc. 

With. Twenty-one Illustrations by Augustus Hoppin. 

1 vol. Small quarto. $2.00. 

This delightful volume has been greeted with remarkable unanimity as one of the wittiest, 
freshest, most wholesome books in American literature. The humorous genius which irradiated 
Mr. Warner’s previous volumes, “My Summer in a Garden” and “ Saunterings,” pervades these 
“ Backlog Studies,” and lends them an indescribable charm. 


NOTICES OP 

Boston Advertiser. 

The light of the great wood fire falls sidewise and 
glancingly on many questions of social science and house- 
hold economy, and though it determines none, it helps us 
to see them with clearer vision than we frequently get 
from more serious disquisitions. But the chats about 
criticism, the great New England pie-line, the furnishing 
of r ioms, the progress of civilization, the worth of Orien- 
tal classics, the work of reformers, women novelists, the 
clothes question, Gothic architecture in modern churches, 
life at Concord, speech and custom in Boston, social 
popularity, misdirected energy, the personality of authors 
in their books, the value of the stage as a mirror of nature, 
— the best of the book is not in anything of this sort. 
And it is easier to say in what the best is not, than to de- 
fine precisely in what it is. Who can catch and deliver 
over the real charm of an evening by the fireside with 
half a dozen clever people? 

One might say that the studies are wise and witty, 
and tender and fanciful, and incisive and shrewd, — all 
that is true, but the whole truth is something more. 
There is a certain sober dryness and whimsical serious- 
ness about them which sets Mr. Warner apart from other 
humorists of our time. His individuality is that of a 
Yankee who has seen a good deal of life beside what is 
found in a library. The reading of his book is almost as 
solid enjoyment as that of stirring up a wood fire, — it 
would be an evidence of superior virtue in a married mau 
to let his wife read it first. 


Chicago Times. 

The tone of thought is bright, with a sunny, genial 
spirit, and fertile in suggestiveness. It is rarely that we 
find a more pure, racy, limpid style, ami a more graceful 
knack of expression than in these bright fireside talks. It 
makes pleasant holiday reading, pleasant summer read- 
ing, in despite of the idea of blazing backlogs and a roar- 
ing hearth involved in the title, — in short, delightful 
reading for any time of the year. Mr. Warner’s previous 
books gave him a happy reputation for a fresh, racy, 
pure Anglo-Saxon style, and the last effort will most as- 
suredly not betray that reputation. 


Philadelphia Bulletin. 

Delicious essays, full of good things as a pudding is 
full of plums, always, as the author himself remarks of 
Dr Holmes, “ saying the same things you wish you had 
said yourself,” always gbnial, humorous, feasting eye and 
mind with intellectual fat things ; it is a book among a 
thousand and one, that should be in every family. 


THE PRESS. 

Buffalo Courier. 

It is easy enough to begin the work of picking out the 
beauties of this book, but the difficulty is to know where 
to end. The fire kindled by the author wakes a host of 
memories, and we know instinctively the characters he 
draws, from the millionnaire who pointed out to his wife 
a famous picture by Rubens as “The Rape of the Sar- 
dines,” to the Boston person who reads the Rig-Veda at 
his breakfast-table instead of the morning paper. But 
take the book for yourself, reader. Don't go through it as 
if it were a task, but take it up and read it a study at a 
time. It has the way of talking which an old, familiar 
friend uses, and as you go about your work, its words 
will come back again and again, with added volumes 
of suggestiveness. It is not the sentimental musings 
of a youth, but the gentlest and finest experiences of a 
man of maturity. 


Boston Courier. 

The pervading charm of the book is its naturalness. 
The style, while highly refined and scholar-like, is as un- 
affected and easy as fireside talk. This is esptcially true 
of the later essays in the book, wherein the author and his 
friends hold discourse upon various forms of life and 
manners. They speak, each man in his own tongue, as 
in the unrestricted freedom of friendship. There is, too, 
a quiet, delicate humor, which gives piquancy to all they 
say, whether it be about the Gothic architecture of our 
day, or modern reform, or aught else. But the book is 
not only very pleasant reading, — it is very suggestive, 
and you carry the flavor of it in your brain long after 
you have put it on the shelf. It is worthy of a place 
beside those old essayists who sanctify a library. 


Baltimore Gazette. 

When the firm of James R. Osgood k Co. get hold of a 
good thing they take care that it shall not want a fitting 
accompaniment of binding and typography, dainty little 
etchings for illustrations, wide-margined paper, and fault- 
less press-work. Such a good thing is Mr. Charles Dud- 
ley Warner’s “ Backlog Studies,” and such justice has 
been done to the book by its publishers. “Backlog 
Studies ” is full of quiet, quaint humor, and has con- 
firmed the reputation Mr. Warner won by “ My Summer 
in a Garden.” 


New York Evening Post. 
A delicious volume. 


* # * For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 


EVERY SATURDAY: 


A Weekly Journal of Choice Reading. 


EVERY SATURDAY GIVES A LARGE AND CHOICE VARIETY OF 

Serial Tales, Short Stories, Critical and Descriptive Essays, Sketches of Travel and Adventure, 

Poems, Biographical Papers, Literary Information ; 

in line, whatever contributes to produce a Weekly acceptable and attractive to all classes 

of intelligent American readers. 

Among the noted authors represented in Evert Saturday are Arthur Helps, Charles 
Kingsley, Matthew Arnold, Matthew Browne, Edmund Yates, Henry Kingsley, G. H. 


Lewes, Geo. Macdonald, “ The Country Farson,” Frances Power Cobbe, Karl Blind, 
Captain Burton, and many others. 


“Evert Saturday well sustains its reputation for 
skimming the cream of the British magazines, and avoid- 
ing the skim milk. Under the indefatigable editorship 
of Mr. T. B. Aldrich, who is enabled by his publishers to 
avail himself of the advanced sheets of many foreign 
periodicals, this bright, useful, and entertaining weekly 
is becoming one of the necessities of the American home.” 
— Bouton Olobe. 


“Evert Saturday has neither superior nor equal in 
this country. Mr. T. B. Aldrich has its editorial man- 
agement. He is enabled by his publishers to avail himself 
of the advanced sheets of most foreign periodicals, and 
his own careful attention and excellent taste enable him 
to make the journal useful, entertaining, — almost indis- 
pensable to American readers.” — Utica Herald. 


“The advent of Every Saturday is among the pleasant 
gifts of the week. A skilful hand guides its interests, and 
freights it with good things from week to week. It well 
merits the name of ‘ A Journal of Choice Reading,’ for 
its subjects vary from ‘ grave to gay,’ with a judicious 
mingling of stories, criticism, and biography, seasoned 
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satisfactory. Nothing could be more in harmony with an 
open fire, a pair of slippers, and an arm-chair than its 
dainty typography, and fresh selections from the rich 
field of English periodical literature.” — The Advance 
( Chicago). 


“Every Saturday contains a rich in-gathering of the 
best and latest of English magazine and periodical writ- 
ing. Every Saturday, as ‘ a journal of choice reading,’ 
is a success. For our taste its editing could not be im- 
proved.” — Buffalo Courier. 


“ Every Saturday is as welcome a visitor in Its new 
form as when it came to us full of fine illustrations. All 
of the best English magazines are searched for their 
sprightliest and most entertaining contents, while more 
serious and thoughtful themes are not neglected.” — New- 
ark Advertiser. 


“With every succeeding week Every Saturday gives 
its readers fresh cause for gratification. It is a handy, 
enjoyable, and valuable weekly miscellany of choice read- 
ing, — the cream of the cream of foreign periodical litera- 
ture.” — Cleveland Herald. 


“In typography, paper, and general appearance, it 
commends itself to the eye, as its matter does to the sense. 
In our frequent journeys by rail, we have no wish to kill 
the time if so fortunate as to have Every Saturday for a 
travelling companion.” — New York Christian Leader. 

■ 

“Every Saturday has become, under the careful and 
catholic editorial supervision it has, an indispensable 
Saturday-night companion in cultivated households” — 
Hartford Courant. 


“ A very desirable paper for the family circle.” — 
Detroit Free Press. 


Weekly Parts, 10 cents ; Monthly Parts, 50 cents. $5.00 a year; $4.00 to subscribers for 
any other periodical issued by the Publishers, 


JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 








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